


The Harlot and Her Son

by LaikaFlash



Category: Soul Calibur
Genre: Angst, Author Is Not Religious, Brothels, Discussion of Abortion, F/M, Family Issues, Forced Prostitution, Gen, Historical References, Illegitimacy, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Infertility, Misogyny, Mother-Son Relationship, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period Typical Attitudes, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:47:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21797842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaikaFlash/pseuds/LaikaFlash
Summary: Siegfried's mother wasn't a lady, not the kind one would make a promise to, that is. She longed to leave her desperate life as a prostitute, whatever her child would become.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	1. The Common Woman

_1566_

Piece by piece, a young knight removed his armor while Margaret inched onto the bed. He was one of Ober-Getzenberg’s defenders seeking a reprieve from the siege. This, she was told, was an honor, but no amount of ale would have dispelled her shame for being here. Her eyes were on the two copper pfennigs in the lamplight. The chatter in the brothel was dying down, and already she could hear another girl and her client in the next room over. Margaret tried to focus instead on the knight, though with his gruff demeanor, she couldn’t bring herself to meet his eyes. She flicked her blonde hair as one of her housemates did, though she hardly felt like a seductress herself.

He scoffed. “I’m not playing with you, girl. Disrobe.”

The instant she cast off her shift, his calloused hands held her fast as he examined her. He relentlessly fondled her as though searching for a wanton within her. His gaze was alight with hunger. She shut her eyes and turned her head away, but he grabbed her chin and forced her to face him.

“Good sir, I beg you to not hurt me,” she whimpered.

He snorted. “If your mistress hasn’t cheated me tonight, _that_ will be unavoidable.”

Margaret shuddered, finally realizing the feeling of dread that had surfaced when she brought him into this dark, little room—that of an animal primed for sacrifice. She scarcely had time to comprehend what had slipped between her thighs before he forced himself into her. She cried out, but he would not stop.

_He’s splitting me in two!_

In a husky voice he said, “There’s a good girl.”

The end came as suddenly as he had started. The knight only grunted and shuddered until he collapsed on her. Once he rose from the bed, she was gasping in agony. He looked between her legs and chuckled in triumph.

“It’s a pity that I can’t stay long. Maybe next time, I’ll give you my name—when you’re a proper whore.”

After he left, she saw the blood on her thighs and the sheet. She had come here alone, hungry, and without a pfennig to her name. How many of the other women here had started out just like her? The only thing that surely lay ahead was a pauper’s grave in the outskirts of the city. What was this compared to wasting away in the street?

Before she could try to grasp that, the stone-faced mistress entered the room and set down a basin of water. “You may keep those pfennigs. He already paid for your maidenhead.”

“Didn’t you hear me... What he did...?”

“What did I tell you? You were in no position to hesitate.”

“Then what if I’m with child?”

“That I can help you with, in due time,” the mistress answered flatly. “After all, you’re young and pretty enough. Now, wash up and don’t dawdle. It won’t do you any good to shy away.” She handed her a rag and left her alone. Again, there was grunting and panting from the next room over and surely more of the same in the others. Margaret quietly wept.

Thus was the first of many more nights than she could bear to count.

Over the course of a month, Margaret had accumulated a debt to the mistress for room and board. However much the customers deigned to pay did little to alleviate the matter. But not once had the pitiless mistress threatened to kick her out for her paltry earnings. She was a patient brothel-keeper, so long as her tenants behaved.

One morning, she asked Hedwig, the eldest of the prostitutes: “How can you bear this?”

Hedwig toyed with a strand of her brown hair as she thought on that. At the age of thirty-three, she was already considered long in the tooth by the mistress Lisbeth, whom none would remind that Hedwig was more than ten years her junior. “It doesn’t have to be all bad,” Hedwig gently said. “It was here I learned how to enjoy a man’s touch, after all. The young men go to us to learn without shaming the girls they love, for one.”

After a long pause, Margaret said, “I _can’t_ do enough.”

“Enough,” a sardonic brunette cut in. “There’s no ‘enough’ here. Don’t dance around that one, Hedy.”

And she had silenced them both.

Many a time after the last man left her room, Margaret would dream of how she would leave the brothel. She would cast off the yellow-hemmed, green dress1 for the last time, repent for her desperation, and find her way to some other city. If no one knew her there, she could work as a spinner, and perhaps live as a respectable woman.

These hopes did not hold back her darkest thoughts. She, too, could fall ill and wither, or die giving birth to a child that no one wanted. Once, she had dreamed of drowning in the Rhine, and the last thing she felt amid the biting cold were unseen hands clutching her heels. She awoke in a cold sweat, but she could not weep. The mistress would drag her out of bed by the hair if she lingered.

* * *

“Don’t go out! The rebels are in the city!” This was the cry that Margaret awoke to one early May morning. After an impromptu prayer, she passed the panicked girl to peer out of a window. From here, she couldn’t see what was making the people rush pell-mell through the street, but the sight of it made her shrink.

Another woman shouted, “Margaret! Help us bar the door! Hurry!”

She ran downstairs to the back door where four of the other women were shifting a bench. The mistress must have been at the front with the rest. She hurtled past them and struggled with the locked door.

Hedwig grabbed her by the shoulder. “Margaret, have you gone mad?”

“I won’t die here,” she sobbed, shaking. “I won’t die here!”

“Easy, easy… Now, let’s go upstairs. I’ll watch out for you.”

She led Margaret to her own room where they sat with their backs against the door. The rest could be heard frantically ducking into the other rooms, many in twos or threes, and some crying. Perhaps even the mistress was just as afraid. “Hedwig,” Margaret said, “what if they do break in?”

Hedwig drew a deep breath and crossed herself. “God help us,” she mumbled.

They would have been no less alarmed if they could have seen those rebels concentrated at the citadel gate. Out there, leading an army of red-clad Landsknechte2 and scythe-wielding peasants was Sir Frederick Schtauffen, a son of an Imperial knight. He dismounted with some of the Landsknechte following him and the remaining men formed a protective half-circle, awaiting news of the lord’s surrender.

There were no raids within the city itself. Three nights on, a Landsknecht, impossible to overlook in his gaudy red and yellow outfit, came to the brothel as nonchalantly as though he hadn’t been an enemy. Margaret saw only that much since he chose another girl. Then she noticed a knight rigidly shuffling in, stopping a few inches from the door and looked toward the floor. His short hair was dark brown, and the beginnings of a beard could be seen below his mustache.

Margaret approached him. “What’s the matter, sir?”

“You saw that man in red? Well, he didn’t quite tell me what sort of place this was.”

She met his brown eyes and lightly touched his hand. “How long has it been since you’ve had a warm bed to stay in?”

With a deep breath, he relaxed and focused on her. “Oh, too long… Too long, indeed.”

“You are welcome to mine, sir. If you follow me upstairs, I can be the lady that you yearn for.”

He shook his head and placed his hand on her shoulder. _“Fräulein_ , I can’t stay in a place like this. Here, for your troubles.” He handed her a pair of pfennigs before he left and vanished into the night. Somehow, Margaret couldn’t help but feel wounded.

_Then again, it would be best if no one saw me tonight._

A little while later, as she counted the coins stashed in her woolen cloak, she overheard the Landsknecht talking to the girl. “He’s far too kind. If it were up to me, that old vulture would’ve been beheaded, for a start.”

“Did the Emperor send this knight?” she asked.

“Ha! Peasants fighting on behalf of the Emperor, can you imagine that?”

At first light, Margaret crept out the back door. Tucked under her cloak was a pouch of pfennigs tied to a cord around her waist, a heel of bread, and a skeleton key, the last of which she dropped behind her. She had made off with the key while everyone else was asleep, and she pressed her thumbs3 in the hopes that the mistress would only think that she had misplaced it herself. She threaded her way through the winding streets until she could make out the spire of the church against the horizon, and headed straight for it. Once there, she pounded at the door, but no sound came from within. Exhausted, she curled up facing the wall and tucked in her hem under the cloak.

_One more night, if that’s what it takes._

The morning bell awoke her. Margaret ate half of her meager breakfast and continued on as the city itself steadily awakened. She walked the main road with her head down until she could disappear into the alleyways, and she thought she had managed that until she heard a man’s voice behind her.

“A little warm in that, aren’t you, _Fräulein?”_ A burly Landsknecht suddenly pinned her against the wall.

“Let go of me!”

“Silly little whore, you thought you could hide what you are? You’d _better_ come along with me—”

She screamed, startling him just enough for her to wriggle out of his grasp, but he quickly grabbed her by the hair and tried to drag her. From the corner of her eye, she saw someone duck into the back of a nearby tavern. The Landsknecht only balked when a small crowd could be seen peering in at the alley’s entrance. At the other end, a helmeted knight stepped in and he raised his visor.

“Ah, Sir Frederick,” the Landsknecht addressed him, clutching the shaking Margaret to his side. “It’s just this little hussy…”

“Let her go.”

“Come now, sir. This is anybody’s woman.”

Frederick looked her in the eye; she was crying and faintly pleading. “Please, sir, don’t let him…”

“Then give her to me,” he ordered the Landsknecht.

Margaret was then shoved to the ground. Frederick held out his hand to her and softly said, “Come along, I won’t harm you.”

She recognized his voice and face; this now seemed too good to be true. She rose to her feet and stood beside him. Her heart raced as she whispered in thanks.

Frederick then pointedly said to the Landsknecht, “Look over there. Is _this_ what you’d want them to remember you for?”

“Sir, even the guards wouldn’t stop—”

“Get out of my sight!”

While the Landsknecht hastily retreated into the tavern, Frederick calmed himself. “Dear lady, I apologize that one so base is among my men. You have my protection.”

“You’re too kind, good sir.”

“I am Sir Frederick Schtauffen, Imperial knight. For now, you may stay in my quarters.”

Since the previous night, his quarters were a room in the back of the tavern, the Blue Hound. It was also lodging more Landsknechte than the tavern-keeper and his staff cared to deal with. Even if he wasn’t thus preoccupied with making sure the boisterous troop didn’t start a fight, he would say nothing of the knight’s new companion. “Frederick,” one them shouted over all the noise, “I knew you had it in you!” After partaking in a meal and drink, Frederick led Margaret upstairs to his room. Once he shut the door, she removed her cloak and shyly looked up at him.

“Do you remember me from last night, sir?”

“Of course,” he said as he removed his gauntlets. “You may as well call me by my name while we’re here.”

“Frederick, do you want me? You already gave me coins; I won’t ask for much more.”

Though momentarily distracted by the raucous laughter from downstairs, Frederick sat down at the edge of the bed and beckoned to her. “Don’t worry. They won’t bother us.” Once she settled by him, he brushed his fingers against hers. She couldn’t readily fathom why he would tease her so. Her customers weren’t patient lovers, and they tended to be taciturn at that. Something, she figured, had to be missing.

“Frederick, do you not already have a lady somewhere?”

Finally out of his armor, he shook his head. “You know as well as I do how deeply a man can long for a woman’s embrace. Will you allow me that?”

“You would ask that of a harlot?” In spite of her wryness, she passed her hand across her breasts.

“I ask _you_ , Margaret,” he whispered into her ear.

She drew him closer and they became lost in one another. Heedless of the commotion just beneath them, they were soon free of their clothes. She delighted in his touch, even with the understanding that they may never meet again. For the rest of the night, she was his lady.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. What a prostitute was supposed to wear to distinguish herself from the "respectable" women of her day varied from city to city. The yellow hem was one such mark in Germany. Green, yellow, or red tended to be used for that purpose. Back  
> 2\. [Basically these dudes.](http://www.veritablehokum.com/comic/landsknecht/) I've used the German plural. Back  
> 3\. Has the same meaning as crossing your fingers. Back
> 
> This grew out of Frederick’s character bio in Soul Calibur VI, which referred to Siegfried's mother as a "lady of the night" and well... Siegfried’s profile on the old [Soul Archive ](http://www.soularchive.jp/tmr/souledge/sieg/sie_pro.htm)site also said as much, though Google Translate did try to bullshit me by rendering "娼婦" as "widow" instead of "prostitute" for whatever reason (ETA: not anymore. The AI is on to me.) I'd assumed that the English localization of Soul Blade had that bit sanitized, but no. It turns out that the Japanese version doesn't even say that (she's just called "土地の娘", which I think is something to the effect of "local girl").
> 
> It took every fiber of my being to not use the actual German versions of their names here (Friedrich and Margarete, respectively), but okay, Namco. The latter does have a few variants, though.


	2. Expecting

Late into the night, Margaret curled up in his embrace, gazing at him in the soft lamplight. This she had never done before. Sir Frederick had been quite willing to satisfy her curiosity about the Landsknechte. “You wouldn’t see anything like it among knights. The colonel was upfront about them having prostitutes—a few were already with them.” His face reddened. “Ah, but I should mention that most of the women are their wives. They all live on campaign, you see?”

“They bring their wives?” she asked incredulously.

“Indeed they do. In the camp I’d see one pass by with a child in tow, all busy, and then I’d hate to think of how vulnerable they’d be if we fell… But the Landsknechte won’t do without them.”

“How brave these women must be.”

“I don’t doubt it.” He fell to caressing her again—with his left hand, she now realized.

“We were afraid that _your_ men would raid the city. Why did you fight here, if not to plunder?”

“Why?” He put his free hand to his chin as he considered his answer. “There’s no justice in fighting for a cruel master. The peasants banded together because the lords prefer to have them slain rather than lessen their burdens. Even the ones on my father’s estate took up arms, so I swore to aid them. I hired those men so that they may stand a chance.”

They awoke in each other’s embrace. Not once had she felt so warm, and not merely from the morning light from the window. Many had used her; Frederick made love to her. He gave her contented pats to the back as he arose from the bed.

Margaret whispered, “Do you want another go?”

“I can’t stay long.” He stretched his limbs and began to dress himself.

“You were far more—how shall I say—ardent than any man I’ve had.”

“May I ask how you came to be…?”

“Well, I had nothing after my father died. The brothel-keeper at least gave me a place to stay when I was lost and starved.” A cold sweat broke out as she recalled. “I was compelled to go with this man—a knight—because he paid dearly for my maidenhead. I was afraid, and he… He had his way with me.”

He blanched. “How was it that you were willing to lie with me?”

“That you would protect even one of my standing, it must have brought out something in me… No, that we’re talking still is more than I could’ve asked for.”

“You taught me what a woman can be.” He kissed her shoulder, just inches from a mark he had made on her neck.

A sudden knocking made him spring to his feet. “Sir Frederick, aren’t you awake?” a man called from the other side of the door.

Frederick quietly turned back and whispered, “Margaret, I must be off now. Let this be of some help.” He handed her a groschen. She quickly grabbed his hand.

“Best of luck to you,” she whispered, and then kissed him.

With that, she watched him and some of his men file out. A hush fell, broken only by the sweeping of the tavern-maid’s broom. Margaret began to feel a yearning for his affection. Even feeling like a courtesan for a while was better. She hadn’t felt ruined. 

Once she stepped outside, avoiding the grizzled tavern-keeper’s suspicious eye, Margaret fretted over how far her tips could take her. If she had no luck finding work elsewhere, she would be no better off than when she came to this city. There was also the matter of getting rid of the dress, if the guards at the gate wouldn’t let her through otherwise. Margaret had little time to contemplate that before she recognized a young woman’s voice calling her.

Hanne, a fellow from the brothel, ran to her and asked breathlessly, “What are you doing out? The tavern-keeper doesn’t like us hanging around here.”

“How did you find me?”

“Ah… We didn’t see you at all this morning.” Hanne stared back nervously as though imploring her. Margaret was loath to figure this timid girl for a spy, but someone had to have seen through her own ruse (simple as it was).

“You were sent for me.”

Trembling, Hanne suddenly took her by the arm. “Please come back! I can’t lie to her!”

Margaret ruefully followed. The buildings overlooking the streets might as well have been closing in on her. Nothing had prepared her for the mistress’ piercing glare. “Well done finding our stray, dear Hanne,” she greeted coldly. “Go on. I’ll have a word with _her_ in a moment.”

With an apologetic glance, Hanne flitted to the dining table with the other women. Hedwig took her to her side while the rest shook their heads or whispered in pity. They all turned away at the sight of the mistress backing Margaret into a corner.

“Had a little adventure, did you?” The mistress’ eyes were on the love-bites on her neck.

Margaret’s jaw clenched. “I was out with a customer.”

Her eyebrow arched. “Empty your purse. Now.” She examined the coins as they were poured into her hands, quickly eyeing the groschen. “My, my… Is someone trying to steal you away?” Her voice lowered grimly. “You know what happens to girls who don’t stay where they should, don’t you?”

“He was an Imperial knight,” she blurted. “He wouldn’t—”

The mistress harshly laughed. “Do you think you’re too good for us now?”

“No, _Frau_.” Margaret’s heart sank as the mistress stuffed the coins into her own purse.

“These will be compensation for your absence.”

“But I was only gone for—”

“Shut up.” She grabbed Margaret by the chin and stared her down. “If you prove to be more trouble than you’re worth, you are out of here. Understand?”

Margaret could only nod.

“You’d better. Now, go and see if anyone will spare you a scrap.”

Only then was Margaret allowed to take the empty seat. All around her there were murmurs, some of sympathy; some of reproach. She didn’t meet their eyes.

The mistress called for Hedwig. “I trust you’ll keep our little runaway out of trouble?”

“Of course,” she answered. Discreetly, Hanne gave Margaret the remaining half of her slice of bread. Her acceptance of it was her one solace that day.

As summer drew near, Margaret found herself feeling bloated and tired. Then there was the nausea that kept her awake through the night, dreading what that meant. Menstruation came as a relief here, irregular as hers had been. In those times, she recalled her late mother’s advice: that not all seeds planted would grow, as she had delicately put it. Never could she have foreseen what it would mean to her daughter years afterward.

Hedwig came into Margaret’s room and set a scarcely-eaten slice of bread on the little table. “You hardly touched your breakfast.”

“I’m sick.” Margaret weakly sat up on her bed.

“Let me have a look.” She placed her hand on her pallid forehead. “No fever. Tell me, has your bleeding happened lately?”

“It should start any day now.” Margaret rolled onto her side and clutched her stomach.

Hedwig patted her shoulder, then whispered, “There are certain herbs that you can take to start your bleeding, you need only ask the mistress for those. But mind, it would be best not to delay it long. And don’t tell _anyone_.”

“What do they do?”

“It’ll be like a heavy flow. That once happened to me before I even knew that I had been pregnant.” Hedwig paused and looked down for a moment. “It was my only one. Some of us should be so lucky.”

“And if I don’t take them?”

Hedwig sighed. “Do you really want a child? What would you say if it asked about its father?”

“I know who the father is. I just wish I knew if he’d accept it.”

“Oh, dear heart… Leave the baby at the church door if that would make you feel better. This is no place for children.”

“I need a while to think. But please don’t tell.”

“Very well.” With that, Hedwig left Margaret to ponder her situation. As the nausea subsided, she kept one hand over her belly and pictured how it would grow in the coming months. As for the baby, could she bear to leave it in the kindness of strangers? Were it not for Frederick, she might not have asked herself that. More than anything, she hoped that it would indeed belong to the man she loved.

Margaret kept her eyes to the front door each night in the hopes of seeing Frederick. To the clients, she could appear a quite a forlorn and pitiful little thing, though none of them asked why. Whatever she did for them, after all, was merely her livelihood. The bouts of sickness had cost her a few nights’ pay, and the mistress had become suspicious. The night before, when she’d felt too ill to leave her bed, the mistress said, “Get up, malingerer.”

But that all changed when she brought a journeyman to her bed.

“You look like my Kathrin,” he said as he played with a lock of her hair. “You even have her green eyes.”

“Why do you flatter me so,” Margaret teased. Inwardly, she was stifling the idea that she was abetting him in cheating on his fiancée. Whenever the night watchman did his perfunctory check on the place, all were silent on the matter of affairs.

She opened her bodice and let him caress her. Roughened hands were nothing new, but the soreness in her breasts became more pronounced when he squeezed each one. He stopped when he noticed her pained grimace.

“Am I doing it wrong?”

Margaret shook her head. It was not the first time that happened since they had already swollen, and their tenderness had become impossible to ignore. The journeyman’s hand drifted down to her firm belly and lightly pressed with his fingers.

“Wait, are you pregnant?”

Margaret swallowed. “Yes.”

He drew back and shook his head. “I can’t. It just doesn’t feel right.”

She drew a long sigh. “I don’t want your body. In truth, I don’t do this for my pleasure.”

He hastily dug four pfennigs out of his satchel. “I’m sorry. I’ll see myself out.”

When he left, she held her head in her hands for a moment. Soon, the mistress stepped into the room and cast a suspicious glance at her belly. “It’s always you village girls who try to hide it until it’s too late. You could’ve spared yourself the trouble, but now it’s past the time to induce your monthly flow.”

“You could’ve stuck your damned herbs in my food or—”

“ _Shut it_ ,” she hissed, making Margaret flinch. Then, she quietly added, “I’ve lost some of my harlots to miscarriages before, and I didn’t have a hand in any of them. Pity that they were so young. You’re so frail that I’m not sure you’d survive the bleeding.”

“Then what if I die—”

“You have time enough to worry about that.” She paused to count with her fingers. “No later than February. Just think of how you’d be if you were still out there, all alone. You may rest for tonight. If someone asks for you, I’ll tell him you’re sick. Tomorrow, you’ll do maid’s work.”

“Thank you, _Frau,_ ” Margaret timidly said. Not once had she thought this woman would allow her any relief. But she remembered that woman’s gentle tone when she first came here, and she had since regretted believing it to have been sincere.

“And remember, this is your burden. I shall expect you to start working again, with or without a brat to feed.”

Margaret began her new duties as a kitchenmaid the day after. She shared thankless shifts with a rotation of women, and this way she could disappear from the clients’ sight. The latter had been spurred on by an offhand remark by a chuckling lout, who elbowed his friend as he pointed toward her. “Hey Lutz, isn’t that one yours? You goat!” Lutz slapped him and cursed his rotten luck. Margaret cringed as she remembered the sting of his hand on her cheek from his last visit, when she had accidentally said Frederick’s name mid-coitus.

 _No more,_ Margaret swore to herself. Even when alone in her bed, she could still feel the grasping hands and crushing weight of the men. In her mind, the ones she had endured blurred together into a faceless, huffing brute. Before, she would tearily pray for God to forgive her desperation. She had been no one’s daughter. Her sole refuge was her memory of her lover.

She noticed a tear in the seam of her hem—a snag from quite some time ago. She fit her finger into the broken seam and began tearing. Stitches burst and unraveled. The ends of the skirt frayed into green tendrils until the yellow band was severed. She finally threw it to the floor and let it lie like a crumpled snakeskin.

“The rest of it shall go,” she murmured as she laid her hand over the swell of her belly. “You won’t grow up here, I promise.”

* * *

Throughout the encampment of Landsknechte _,_ a veritable troop of women worked tirelessly to maintain the whole regiment. They were the _Tross_ , the colorful mercenaries’ wives, daughters, and the unattached prostitutes. The _Tross_ was under the watch of a man designated as the _Hurenweibel_ , the “whores’ sergeant”, though he had dozed off against a barrel. That very term came as a shock to Sir Frederick before the siege, to which he was flatly told to have a swig.

Since that spring night, Frederick’s mind tended to wander back to Margaret. By now, he knew that he could very well have brought her back, if he had allowed himself that liberty. She had sated him and that should have been the end of it. The term _Mai Frau_ (“May wife”), as the Landsknechte called their paramours, no longer gave him pause, either. These women looked out for their lovers as well as the wives did for their husbands. And he had left her alone in the city. He knew full well that he could have left her a mother, and that made his heart ache.

His squire Walther, a wiry lad nearly sixteen, peered into his tent until Frederick motioned for him to step in. He had been the apprentice of Frederick’s brother Wilfried, up until his own horse threw him off and left him with a shattered leg in a hunting accident the previous summer. Walther had followed his new master as a matter of course. In the _Tross,_ he didn’t stray far from him. “Sir, your eldest brother has sent you a message,” he announced as he handed him a folded and sealed sheet of parchment.

“Ah, timely as always,” Frederick grumbled as he opened the seal.

_Sir Manfred Schtauffen to his dear youngest brother Sir Frederick, greetings._

_I must ask you, since you went off without notice, why do you allow mere peasants to fight with you? Though we are no vassal to the lord of Ober-Getzenberg, just think of the example you are setting. Have you not at least considered what Father would have thought? I thank God that our farmhands have had the sense to return; Heaven help those we lost. But I will not turn you away. Come and see how your little nephew has grown in your absence. Know that our brother is recovering well from his injury and he wishes you the best of luck. So do return home when you are able, that you may not sully our family name any further._

“Oh yes, I’ve thought of that,” Frederick muttered. “But he can’t write me out of his will now.”

The peasants who had survived the siege had returned to their farms for the autumn. Frederick couldn’t find it in him to fault them since many of their number had been so mercilessly cut down for want of armor.

“The Landsknechte await your orders, Sir.” Walther brushed his hair out of his eyes. “Don’t be too troubled.”

“Get my horse ready for battle. I’ll face my brothers when the time comes.”

The Landsknechte stood ready to meet the last stubborn enemies in battle. In spite of their lord’s surrender, his eldest son had rallied the city’s discontented knights and reclaimed the castle. That day, Sir Frederick set off on his horse to face the ones too proud to give in.

The Landsknechte had left the city by the first snow. In the intervening time, Margaret watched many of them come into the brothel, but there had been no sign of Frederick. On a gray midday, she went alone to the church in the hope that some act of penance would help her in some way. The inside of the confessional booth was dark and stifling. To the hidden priest on the other side of the double-latticed screen, she laid bare her soul.

“I sold my body and endured the desires of men so that I could live. And once, I willingly fornicated with a knight by whom I’m with child. I was only allowed to be chaste after the brothel-keeper was sure that I was pregnant.”

The priest thought on this, and then coughed profusely. After clearing his throat, he hoarsely said, “You no longer want to be a harlot? When you begin your penance, call upon Mary Magdalene to pray on your behalf that our Lord may cleanse you of your sins.”

Though taken aback by his impassive tone, Margaret could only say yes.

When she knelt on the steps before the altar, she began her penance as she was instructed. She prayed for the intercession of the Magdalene and of any saints who took pity on dishonored women that God would perhaps forgive her. The baby restlessly kicked within her. It seemed that a direct petition was in order.

“You who allow orphaned girls to be sold for the lusts of men, am I no longer Your child? You who let their babies die in the womb or on the street, are bastard children worth less even to You than legitimate ones? Heavenly Father, if You listen to any of us common women, I ask for the safety of my child. Let me bring my only flesh and blood into the world so that I may take it away from where I was shamed.”

How large and cavernous the church’s interior seemed compared to the one from her village. How long had it been since she had feared that she could never be reunited with her parents after death? She stepped onto the snowy street wondering why, if God did not listen to her prayers when they took ill, should she think he would do so now.

She came back to the brothel and seated herself by the hearth, her head bent down. Ursel, the reddish-blonde from the room next to hers, approached and presented her a small, undyed, woolen blanket. “For your baby. I haggled for it while I was out earlier. Well, it was the best I could get… What’s wrong?”

Pale-faced and teary-eyed, Margaret reluctantly accepted it. Ursel had confided in her that she had asked one of the Landsknecht—a lieutenant who had made occasional visits since last spring—to tell Frederick of the situation, but no news came since then. “Sometimes, I've wished I hadn’t met him. It was foolish of me to think he’d come back.”

She gently put her hand on Margaret’s rounded belly. “You’ve gotten so big. And your little one, does it move about when you sleep, too?”

“Every night.”

“For your sakes, don’t cross Lisbeth again.” It was a rare thing for the mistress’ name to be spoken aloud. “Last year, she threatened to kick out a girl and keep her baby, if it was a girl. She said she’d raise her to be grateful, something like that. Poor Greta…”

Margaret’s blood ran cold. “What happened?”

Ursel shook her head. “She had a boy. The night after she gave birth, they both disappeared. Though, I don’t know what Lisbeth would’ve done with him. That could have been a bluff, but I don’t know…”

* * *

The first pains, ones like the worst menstrual cramps, kept Margaret awake through the night. At dawn, she felt a gush of water leave her. She shrieked in panic. The prostitutes were no strangers to labor occurring at inopportune times, so one was sent out for a midwife, one to calm the mother-to-be, and others for a basin of water, some rags, and a certain chair. This last item had a half-circle cut into the seat. Margaret found it quite awkward as she gripped the edge of it as the pain tore through her.

“She’s helped us before,” Hedwig assured her as she massaged her shoulders. “She’ll be here soon. Breathe. Breathe…” She then murmured a prayer. Margaret clenched her teeth and shut her eyes as she inhaled sharply.

_Come out, baby… It’s not your fault that it must be here._

When the midwife arrived, she set to work with no less diligence than she gave for any housewife. The door was shut to everyone else, though Margaret could hear a few talking nervously to each other.

The midwife said to her, “I see nothing in the way. Keep pushing!”

It was a long ordeal, and Margaret struggled to collect herself throughout. She thought about how she would find its father and tell him everything—but how? By the time the morning light filled the room, the midwife saw the head. The baby was delivered screaming into her hands. “A boy! And what a cry from him!”

Margaret only saw a bloody mess, but she wanted to reach for him. After he was washed, and Margaret was relieved of the afterbirth, Hedwig helped her aching body to her bed.

“You did it,” she whispered as she dabbed the sweat from Margaret’s forehead.

Her son was laid in her arms, and he quieted down as she kissed his head. Upon seeing his light hair, she hoped to recognize some trait from Frederick. The baby’s blue-gray eyes stared back at her. He grasped the folds of her bodice in his little, pink hands and then fell asleep in her arms.

“My little one. My everything…”

Sir Frederick returned to Ober-Getzenberg alone, against his better judgment. After the hard-won battle, the nine months of reclaiming the city, he passed a few days with his brothers on their late father’s manor. With them he made no secret his leading the siege, his dealing with the Landsknechte, but not the reason he would go back there.

Somehow, he remembered where that place was: hidden near the city wall, some twists and turns away from that tavern. He felt a tightening in the throat as he knocked at the door. Ursel greeted him with a coquettish smile and beckoned. He recognized the green dress with the yellow hem right away, but not any of the women he saw inside.

“Ah, _Fräulein,_ is there perchance a Margaret here?”

“Oh! She’s in no condition for work, sir.”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s had a baby. If you’d rather—”

Frederick held up his hand. “Please, take me to her.”

“Of course, sir!” Ursel’s expression seemed to light up as she realized his intent. “Sorry, sir. I don’t believe I’ve seen you at all.” She led him upstairs and gently tapped at one of many seemingly identical doors. “Margaret, you have a visitor.”

The door opened just enough for Margaret to peer out. She nearly slammed it shut in disbelief. She wasn’t everything he remembered, for her body was swollen, her eyes tired, and her skirt frayed. She lifted the swaddled baby from his makeshift cradle on the floor.

“This is our son,” she said, quavering.

Astonished, Frederick stepped into her room. The door was quietly shut behind them. He kissed Margaret’s forehead and wrapped his arm around her. She laid the baby down to complete the embrace for just a little while.

“Margaret, I’m sorry for leaving you so heedlessly.”

“You were the only man who touched my heart,” she said as they let go of each other. Her cheeks reddened as she put the baby in his arms. “He hasn’t even been named yet. If you wish, you may give him one.”

He freed the little arms and let the stubby fingers squeeze one of his. “What a grip he has,” he beamed. “Siegfried. His name shall be Siegfried, after the hero of old.”

“Siegfried… You accept him?”

“I knew I could’ve left you with a child, and I feared that I might never find you again.” He placed Siegfried back into his mother’s arms. “I won’t leave my child in the cold, so I shall bring you out of here too.”

Her heart leapt. Though in the back her mind, it would seem that this was all because she had given him a son, she couldn’t bring herself to refuse. Admittedly, Frederick needed some amount of cynicism in dealing with the mistress. He swore to pay her what Margaret couldn’t.

“Sir, I must be blunt,” the mistress said, lightly drumming her fingers on her strongbox. “You’re a sentimental fool.”

“Look at me now!” Margaret snapped. “How soon do you think I could do that with my miserable pittances?”

She then cleared her throat. “I’d be a fool to refuse.”

So it was agreed that Margaret would be out of her hands. For Margaret, this came with a gnawing feeling that she was abandoning the ones in whom she had confided, the ones who fussed over the baby, her friends in dishonor. The farewells were sudden, and Frederick noticed the melancholy feeling around them. She left with her few possessions: her cloak, purse, and the cloth sling with which she carried Siegfried.

He promised to Margaret, “For what you gave me, you deserve more than that. I’ll make him my legitimate son.”

“Then I’ll be a faithful wife for you.” While Siegfried stirred awake, she clasped Frederick’s hands. “If I can’t be a wife," she added, despite the catch in her throat, "I’ll gladly be your concubine.”

He kissed her hand. “Come along. My home is less than a day’s ride from here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was not supposed to take as long as it did but I've rewritten the ending for this chapter three times and had some scares that aren't relevant here.
> 
> 1\. Some of the herbs in question would be pennyroyal and Queen Anne's lace, which were used as abortifacients. The former is toxic in large doses.
> 
> 2\. Mary Magdalene was popularly believed to have been a repentant prostitute since the Early Middle Ages. [The reasons are convoluted, so I'll just leave this here.](https://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/who-was-mary-magdalene-119565482/)
> 
> Some general notes:  
> I'm keeping the gratuitous German to a minimum. In any names with a "TH", that sound is pronounced as "T".
> 
> About Frederick's brothers: I may be really stretching here, but if I understand this one line from the Soul Archive site (see link in the first chapter's notes), part of it goes something like: "Frederick, the third son of a knight based in the frontier of the empire..." As far as I can tell, it's the only mention of them. I BS'd everything else.
> 
> The Gregorian calendar wasn't a thing until 1582. I avoided directly mentioning the date because according to the Julian calendar, February 6, 1567 is January 27 of the same year (from WolframAlpha). That's a thing I wracked my brain over because I can't math.


	3. Mater semper certa est

Frederick stood firm as he greeted his eldest brother. Sir Manfred huffed, stroking his beard as he took in the sight of the nervous woman rocking the fussing baby. Siegfried hadn’t taken the ride well and had let everyone know it.

“Manfred, this is my son and this is his mother.”

His stern look became a knowing one. “I suppose I’ll have a room prepared.”

So Margaret and Siegfried were coldly received in the Schtauffen household. Sir Wilfried, the middle brother who walked with a slight hobble, seated himself and quietly observed. Margaret anxiously stood behind Frederick, certain that they _knew._ They knew she’d brought in a whoreson.

Manfred’s brow furrowed. “It might be better for her,” he told Frederick, “to become an anchoress or some other sort of mendicant. As for him… What makes you sure that he’s yours?”

Frederick placed his hand on the baby’s head. “Does he not have Father’s hair?”

“It’s his _mother’s_.”

Wilfried only said, “Like your own boy.”

Manfred gritted his teeth. “You know what I meant.”

“Be that as it may,” Frederick said, “I promised her protection, though I broke my word the morning after. I was away from her for nine months. That told me enough.”

“I don’t care where you found her. You keep an eye on her.” He motioned to his wife, a blue-eyed woman with her hair tucked under a white cap. “Adelheid, show our guests to their room, won’t you?”

With a brusque nod, Adelheid led Margaret through the hall to a spare bedroom. After laying Siegfried down on the bed, Margaret turned to thank her, but Adelheid’s forbidding glance silenced her. Margaret’s heart pounded. _She’ll know._

The lady asked, “What in God’s name happened to your skirt?”

“Oh.” She looked down and tried to think of a tactful answer. “I wasn’t, ah, well then.”

“I can’t say I’ve heard of a man _reaping_ his wild oats.” She tucked a stray blonde lock under her cap. “However did you meet my soft-hearted brother-in-law? Did you come with those whoremongering Landsknechte?”

“No.” The questions stung Margaret, but she kept her voice low. “I was just a girl caught up in it all. I didn’t even think he’d come back. The baby isn’t even a day old.”

There was a muffled shout; Adelheid turned her head for a moment. She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Forgive my husband’s temper,” she muttered. “You’re lucky that Frederick isn’t betrothed, I suppose.”

Siegfried whimpered while Margaret held him close. Suddenly the sound of little running feet came close to the door. Adelheid turned around and stooped before a little blond boy. She murmured to him, tousled his hair, and then both turned to Margaret. Her expression was soft now. “Here’s my little hellion Kurt.”

Kurt stepped close to Margaret, giving a little _hello_ and then stood on his toes to see the baby. The boy’s eyes were his mother’s blue. _Yes, child_ , Margaret wanted to say. _Meet your cousin._

Wilfried’s wife Dorothea quietly stepped in with an apologetic look. She hastily readjusted her snood, which had loosely held her braided brown hair. “He’s not being a bother, is he, _Frӓulein?”_

Margaret shook her head. Again, Adelheid had been listening in on the talk at the hearth.

“You may as well settle in,” she said as she exited. “My husband isn’t one to deny his brothers anything.”

At dawn, after tending to Siegfried, Margaret gathered her old dress. She crept out of the guest room to do what she’d longed to do. A maidservant knelt at the hearth, striking a flint over the hewn logs and tinder until a flame steadily grew. The girl watched curiously as Margaret came to the hearth. Before she could ask what she was about to do, the dress was dumped into the fire.

The girl jumped to her feet, but Margaret held out her hand.

“Leave it,” she quietly said, “It’s from my old life.” She breathed a sigh as smoke wafted from the tattered, smoldering cloth.

The girl hummed uneasily. She picked up a poker and then carefully moved the sleeve into the fire. “This’ll need more tinder,” she muttered.

That morning, a smell like burned hair lingered in the hearth, though no one asked why.

It had been decided that, before all else, Siegfried was to be baptized. He was returned to his mother’s arms afterward, clad in a white gown, newly washed of the ancestral sin, and of his parents’ sins. Margaret’s lying-in took place in this guest room in the back of the house. Other than Frederick, the usual visitors were the maidservant checking on her and the baby, or sometimes Kurt, until Adelheid would tell him to let them be or Dorothea tried to distract him.

“It gets terribly lonely in here,” Margaret said.

“Be patient, my dear. We’ll be wed before long.” Frederick sat on the bedside as he held her hand, his thumb rubbing the back of it. Rain began tapping on the roof. It wasn’t feasible to wait for mild spring, as the solemn forty days of Lent were not the time for weddings.

“Were your brothers always this cold?”

He shook his head. His face, clean-shaven except for the mustache, reddened. “It’s a matter of honor. But you, my dear, mean so much more to me than any highborn maiden. I’ll bear this with you.” He kissed her hand.

Siegfried nuzzled her breast and whimpered. Margaret motioned for Frederick to leave the room. With a nod, he did so, shutting the door behind him.

“Whatever they call you,” she whispered as she opened her bodice to feed Siegfried, “you’ll always be my son.”

She’d bear her prospective in-laws’ begrudging hospitality for however long her lying-in was to be, until she was deemed clean. And one day, she’d have to bear a trueborn Schtauffen.

The ceremony itself was simple. Frederick led Margaret by his left hand to the altar. Her new bridal dress had been dyed a soft blue, and her hair was crowned in a braid. Had spring begun early, it would’ve been wreathed in flowers. Frederick thought her no less beautiful, even if it was the chill that brought out the blush in her cheeks. Once the gold bands were around each other’s fingers, the matter was sealed. The new Frau Schtauffen was escorted to their new home with Siegfried in one arm.

“Welcome home,” Frederick proudly said.

“You went all this way…” Margaret kissed Siegfried’s forehead and then laid him in the new cradle. “Such a long time since I’d imagined my wedding, before I sold my dowry…”

“Say no more.” He wrapped his arm around her waist as he led her to the bed.

Her throat tightened. “He might not sleep for long.”

He turned to face her, though she bowed her head. “What’s the matter?”

“I know what you’ll want. It was one thing then, when there was a chance we’d never meet again, but now? I really would’ve been content to live in sin with you if it would mean our child wouldn’t go hungry.”

“Margaret, if I did that, I might have a wife who’d resent you. My brothers can say what they will, but you’re worth the trouble.”

“For legitimate children?”

“When the time comes,” he said, stroking her cheek. “Your touch is all I ask for tonight.”

He lifted her and gently laid her onto the bed. Margaret tensed, but Frederick settled next to her and beckoned. She inched toward him, and he pulled her to his chest. In his kiss, she could taste a trace of mead on his lips. The same dark eyes that had brimmed with desire before were calm.

“Fine work they’ve done with your hair,” he said as she nestled her head in the crook of his neck. 

Margaret quietly delighted in his fingers running through her tresses. The very hands toughened by swordplay were as gentle as she remembered. Thus they lay—until Siegfried awoke them. Before she laid their son down, she whispered to him, “You have no idea how lucky we are to be here.” Frederick looked on and nodded. Siegfried would want for nothing.

* * *

  
  


Siegfried grew to be a lively boy. His baby blue eyes became green like his mother’s. Once Frederick noticed him preferring to use his left hand, he felt vindicated. “Aha, there’s my son!” Margaret smiled to herself, for by then, she’d seen the boy playing with his little wooden horse often enough to be sure of it.

Until he was old enough to become a page, he was under Margaret’s care. “Tell me a story, Mama,” he said one night his father had been away. “Tell me a new one.”

Margaret thought for a while, letting him lean on her side. “There once was a simple village girl who was the only child of her parents. They lived humbly until a terrible sickness took the mother’s life, and then the father’s. The girl cared for them to their last breaths and made sure they were buried. After that, there was nothing left for her but to seek a new life in the city. But she had no luck finding work there. What little money she had soon ran out, so she grew hungry and scared. One evening, she met an old woman who offered to hire her as a maid. The girl went with her, believing her luck had changed. She was led to a big house, and inside it there were many pretty maidens like herself. The girl was fed and given new clothes and a bed. It was a place unlike any other she knew, but _something_ didn’t feel quite right about it.”

“What was it?”

“What she didn’t know was that the old woman was a witch. Whoever ate her food and stayed the night there would belong to her for the rest of their days. The other girls were in fact her servants, and they could only ease the new girl into her new life. She realized that she had been tricked, but it was too late. No one in the city would help a witch’s servant, so she prayed that the Lord above would take her away somehow, but He didn’t. She cried for many nights, wishing that the river itself would sweep her away, but that didn’t happen either. Then one day, a brave knight came to the city. He happened upon the witch’s house, and inside he met the girl. Of all the maidens there, she was the one most beautiful to him. But he sensed an evil power in the place, so he left.”

“Didn’t he want to save her?”

“Late in the night, while everyone else was asleep, the girl sneaked into the witch’s bedroom and made off with her keys. She slipped out the door into the dark maze of streets, wandering hither and thither until she met the knight again. When she told him how she had been trapped, he swore to protect her. They fell deep in love and passed the night together. Unfortunately, he had to leave the city the next morning to fight, and he had no choice but to leave her behind. She was later found and brought back by one of the witch’s servants. In her fury, the witch locked the girl up in a tiny room until she’d behave. The girl was left to weep. It seemed that she would never see her beloved again. Over time, she grew very tired and sick. Little did she know, their baby was growing inside her.

“Meanwhile, the knight was far away, fighting a cruel baron—but that’s a story for another day. After nine months of grueling battle, the knight returned to the city victorious. He went back to the witch’s house and this time, he saw that his beloved was the mother of his son. So he went to the witch—”

“Did he fight her too?”

“He asked her how he could free them, but she wouldn’t let them go easily. If he was going to take one of her servants, she demanded a fine sum in exchange. But the girl was weak from bringing the child into the world, so it would be quite a while before she could work again. So the witch gave in and broke her spell, as long as no one spoke of the matter, that is. It was agreed, and the knight brought his family home. He and the girl were married afterward, and their son grew up to be a fine knight like his father. And they lived happily for the rest of their days.”

“What about the other girls? Couldn’t he fight the witch and free them too?”

“This knight was a man of his word. The witch, I'm afraid,” she tried to suppress a quiver in her voice, “was far too crafty to be stopped by one person.” A gnawing sense of guilt overtook her. How many poor girls had been forced to take her place since she left? Where were her old housemates now?

“Mama?” Siegfried tugged her sleeve. “Why are you crying?”

She dried her face. “I _was_ that girl.”

Frederick was often away, this time for his squire Walther to complete his training. Up to that day, they faced a barrage of questions from Siegfried when they came back. The siege at Ober-Getzenberg had been a favorite of his to reenact, his often being the only reenactor notwithstanding.

“You little devil,” Walther laughed as the boy tore at imaginary foes with his wooden sword. “You’ll be more than a handful for him!”

From the age of seven onward, Siegfried was his father's shadow and eager pupil. Whether learning to ride or mock combat (by far, his favorites), he was tireless. All befitting of a knight’s son, so Frederick believed.

A zweihänder became of particular interest to Siegfried. This four-foot sword stood out among the conventional arming swords in the armory, and it was a wonder to the boy. Dubbed Faust for reasons unknown to its current owner, it was a gift from the Landsknecht colonel, though Frederick had little time to master it during the revolt.

“When you can lift it,” he promised Siegfried, “you can learn how to wield it.”

“Why _don’t_ you use it?”

“You see my arming sword? _This_ is the kind of blade I was taught to use since I was a boy. But zweihänders aren’t made for knights. I’ve seen a Landsknecht clear a whole span around him with one just like this.”

Siegfried grinned at the thought of it. “Show me how!”

“Very well,” Frederick said, removing the zweihänder with care from its mount. “This you will have to put all your strength into.”

Outside, they arranged four straw dummies in a circle. Sir Frederick stepped into the middle, carrying Faust over his shoulder. In a whirl of thick steel, the straw foes met their fates and fell to pieces on the grass.

* * *

At the age of ten, Siegfried accompanied his father, his uncles and their squires on his first hunt. He and his cousin Kurt brought up the rear as they rode through the Black Forest. They all were armed with thick spears that were studded with a pair of lugs a few inches from the head. Manfred led them, followed by three of his mastiffs. His eye was on the pair of hounds that were sniffing about at some length before him. Wilfried, whose limp never left him, kept closest to the boys.

“Keep in sight of us,” he warned them. “And stay alert.” Wilfried knew the danger well, having fallen from his horse during a boar hunt. Had he dropped his spear or if his brothers hadn’t been quick to bring down the enraged beast, he would have been mauled. And since he became able to walk without a crutch, he had insisted on fighting in some capacity.

Tracking the quarry was a tedious thing to Siegfried. Having trailed the hounds since morning, he wanted to ask his cousin how he could stand it. “Keep watch, stupid,” Kurt hissed, his voice cracking. “This is wolf country.”

“They’d be stupid to attack _us_ ,” Siegfried retorted.

“You’re still small enough that they’d snatch you away before you can eat those words.”

Siegfried silently fumed. It was hardly fair since Kurt, at thirteen, was already a foot taller than him. If he could follow a hunt, he was too old to be intimidated by him, even in jest.

Suddenly, the hounds paused and pricked up their ears. Everyone stopped. In the distance, a boar’s huge, dark body could be seen rooting in a clearing. The hounds ran baying at the prey. Manfred unleashed the mastiffs. The snarling, the boar’s deafening squeals, and a storm of hoofbeats came in quick succession as the knights closed in, their spears at the ready. Two of the mastiffs held it by the ears; the third snapped at its hind foot.

Siegfried watched, entranced. Here he was at last seeing a foe struggle for its life—a real challenge. He saw his father and uncles striking with all their strength. The dogs had taken the brunt of the boar's fury as they held it fast. Manfred dismounted, piercing the boar’s heart with a stab in its side.

At the final blast of the horn, he could finally approach their fallen quarry. Manfred was the last to remove his spear, its head soaked to the lugs in blood. The dogs limped back and licked their wounds. The tips of the boar’s yellowish tusks were reddened. Its mouth was agape, and its small, dark eyes were open—a fierce countenance to the end.

Siegfried proudly gazed at his winded father.

“Boys,” Frederick said, drawing a dagger, “help us unmake the beast before the wolves pick up the scent.” Kurt obeyed without flinching. The sight of the dogs sitting by, panting and wagging their tails, alone told Siegfried what they were to do.

That evening, Frederick and Siegfried returned with their share of the meat. Margaret had been less concerned about that than she was about them coming home safely. Siegfried was unscathed.

“I told you, dear,” Frederick said. “Just as my brothers and I were taught.”

Margaret said no more on the matter. Knowing that hunts would be part of the boy’s training made for an anxious wait, and there were bound to be more like that. Such was the life of a lady. She was sure Siegfried would make him proud. Proud to have taken him from a life of poverty, facing ignominy for the sake of his own flesh and blood. And since she hadn’t felt any quickening in her womb in the years past, she knew how precarious their hopes could be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's title means "the mother is always certain" in Latin. With no visual depictions of Margaret to go by, I'm laboring under the assumption that Siegfried got his hair and eye color from her (notwithstanding that these traits tend to skip generations anyway). I've seen Siegfried's eyes described as _blue_ in quite a few other fics; there [seems to be](https://web.archive.org/web/20011223125354im_/http://soulcalibur.com/images/titles/humaheader.jpg) [some confabulation](https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/soulcalibur/images/2/21/Siegfried-sc.jpg/) [at play.](https://i.pinimg.com/236x/15/5d/6f/155d6f928856ebd339f0a64866a1bba9.jpg) (Looking at you too, SoulCalibur Wiki editors.)
> 
> So, Frederick (well, as an illusion by Zasalamel) wields a zweihänder in SoulCalibur IV, but seeing as those were typically used by Landsknechte, he's conventionally armed here. But since he had Siegfried's moveset, he could be left-handed too. Works for me.
> 
> "Frau" does indeed mean "Lady" in the sense used here.
> 
> The story-within-a-story was just supposed be an attempt at getting out of writer's block, but I guess I really needed a fucked-up little fairy tale.


	4. Die Erbe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I get that the games are just like: "But then he became a bandit" in so many words, and I get why Siegfried-centered fics start at or jump to said banditry. I just wanted to do a transition to that.

That Siegfried took after his mother in appearance remained a point of contention between Frederick and his eldest brother. Manfred, when he was reminded that the same was true for his own son, had maintained that he had no reason to doubt Kurt’s paternity.

The sentiment had not gone unnoticed by the children. In spite of Siegfried’s insistence on sparring, Kurt was aloof to him. If his father’s suspicions bore out, the boy had no right to challenge him even in mock combat. He would not hold back, even if his opponent was still shorter than him, and carried on as though they were still playing at swordsmanship. He would humble the brat yet.

The _clack_ of the wooden blades of the wasters colliding was just as thrilling to Siegfried as the clashing of steel. Siegfried, being a left-hander, had taught Kurt to guard his sword-arm the hard way. But for all his vigor, his cousin tended to outlast him. This time, he had tired himself out by repeatedly striking. For each step Kurt took toward him, he backed away, fixed on what was before him until he felt the roots of a tree beneath his feet. Siegfried found himself backed against the trunk and fumbled as he tried to sidestep. He struggled to parry until the waster was forced out of his weary hand. In vain, he dodged a feint, and tripped backwards over another root.

“I yield!” Siegfried cried as he held out his empty hand.

Kurt smirked and nodded. “Not bad, runt.”

Siegfried picked up his waster and held out his left hand. Kurt then shook his hand. A temporary truce began.

“I can’t wait until I’m a squire,” Siegfried said, stretching his arms. “Hitting dummies is boring!”

Kurt bit his lip. _Not this again,_ he wanted to say.

Siegfried asked, “Have you ever wished that you had a brother?”

This caught Kurt off-guard. “Not in years,” he bluntly answered.

“I used to, but by now he’d be too little.”

“What about a sister?”

“Bah. What can you do with one?”

Kurt had no answer to that. He kept quiet about the matter of Siegfried’s origin. As his father’s heir, he felt that it was his business to know if his uncle had been duped. They went into the armory; Frederick set down the sword he had been honing to greet them.

“Father, any chance you can get a practice sword like Faust?” Siegfried pointed toward the zweihänder.

Kurt grimaced. “Of all things, why’s it called that?”

“Ask it,” Siegfried gibed. With both hands clutching the hilt, Siegfried strained to remove the sword. His unsteady hold was cut short when his father stepped beside him.

“Enough, Siegfried,” Frederick firmly said. He held out his hands and Siegfried gave up the sword, which was then put back in its mounting.

“I was only joking,” Siegfried said, abashed.

“Not in here you don’t.”

Kurt took a moment to get a feel for the sword, and found it unwieldy to lift even with the grip in both hands. “Strange sense of humor those mercenaries had to saddle you with this thing,” he remarked.

Frederick shook his head. “The old colonel entrusted it to me, in case I lost my sword. In my attempts to master it, I’d come to respect his men all the more for it.”

“So, did you really think their hearts were in the whole thing? I was told they would’ve sacked the city if things didn’t go the way they did.”

A regretful look crossed the knight’s face. “They could have. Many others like them have done just that elsewhere. I’d thought that they could do some good in bolstering the peasant troops. Your grandfather once told us what can happen to those.”

The boys listened intently. Kurt was born a season after Sir Konrad’s passing, and so everything he knew about him was from one story or another.

“What did Opa see then?” Siegfried asked. Kurt quietly scoffed; that was his namesake, after all.

“When your grandfather was a squire, just about every village rose against the noblemen. One of the peasants’ demands was an end to serfdom—to be free. His mentor had the honor of protecting Ober-Getzenberg from its peasants. He cut down so many of them.”

Though he felt somewhat foolish for it, Siegfried asked, “Were there _any_ knights who fought on the peasants’ side?”

“Well, he’d heard of Sir Florian Geyer and his _Schwarzer Haufen._ They took over Rothenburg and slew its lords and priests. But he and his knights were outnumbered in the end.”

“You should be so lucky,” Kurt said.

“Indeed.”

Manfred cleared his throat. “If Father could have seen what you did…” He carefully regarded Siegfried, and fell silent. The boy knew his uncle’s judging expression all too well.

_Too bad, uncle._

“Leave Siegfried out of it,” Frederick said.

“I ought to ask what else you’re filling his head with. God knows what he’ll use it for.”

Siegfried stepped before his uncle and crossed his arms. “I’ll show you, old man, how this whoreson can fight.”

Frederick was aghast at what the boy said, though he managed to keep his composure. Manfred self-consciously felt his beard as he would when searching it for gray hairs. By now, there were just enough to be discernible here and there. “Keep up that attitude and you’ll make enemies sooner than you’ll think.” He then eyed Kurt to make sure that he was also paying attention. “If you should learn one thing from your grandfather’s example, it’s that we don’t go out of our way to make trouble. When we’re needed, we fight. Understood?” He turned away, and the shield he carried faced him. The coat of arms was divided vertically into red and gold fields. On the sinister side was the red field, emblazoned with a rearing golden horse, which was marred by the blow of a sword from long ago.

Siegfried looked at his father’s shield on the wall. The sole difference in design being that the horse had wings raised, as the third Schtauffen son had chosen to distinguish his own arms. In just two years, he would be the one to keep his father’s equipment battle-ready.

“I don’t suppose you can spare us a drink, little brother?”

After they all filed into the house, Siegfried sneaked away and waited for them to disappear into the hall. His mother was sitting by the hearth, mending a seam in one of his tunics. She put down her needle and looked up as he approached her.

“What's the matter, Siegfried?”

“Uncle Manfred talks about me like I’m still… Like I shouldn’t be here. It wasn’t my fault.”

Margaret gave a defeated sigh. “When they met you, you were proof of your father’s sin. He might have been forgiven for that, but me? Who was I to claim to have born a knight’s son?”

“I’m every bit as capable as Kurt. That should be enough!”

“Most wouldn’t have waited to see that. If I had to raise you on what little I had, you wouldn’t be able to prove yourself. You, my child, have never slept hungry nor huddled under a dripping roof because your father gave you a chance.” She lifted his chin. “That you can do what you do, that’s much more than I could have asked for.”

“What about you? Why can’t he forgive you too?”

Margaret sighed. “Even if he did, he wouldn’t forget.”

“But Mother, how can _you_ stand it?”

“Your father and I knew full well what taking us in would entail. But it’s helped me to think on what _could_ have happened instead. If he never came back, I might still be in that miserable place until my hair went gray. The brothel-keeper would’ve thrown the both of us out when she saw fit. And you might not have even been my only child to worry about.”

He pictured her clad in tatters, gazing with sunken, hopeless eyes, and holding him with bony hands. At such a sight, he was sure he’d feel helpless. “I just wish they _could_ forget.”

She embraced him. “Remember that you were lucky. Someday, you’ll show that you are indeed your father’s son. I believe you have it in you.”

He returned the embrace ever so lightly as she let go of him. He had once overheard an insinuation that she had clung to his father just for his money. Perhaps that had come from the miffed father of some hapless lady years ago. Siegfried couldn’t imagine that there had been any deceit on his mother’s part. He had been brought here out of love, that was it. That should have been enough.

But in the moment, he could only find it in him to nod to what she had said. With a faint smile, he went out to the stable.

His horse was an excitable gray colt that he had named Sturm. Though he had been dark brown as a foal, his coat lightened so much over the course of four years that he was nearly white. After a little while, Kurt had stolen away and met Siegfried there.

“You looking for me?”

Kurt shook his head. “My father’s in a berating mood.”

“Be more specific.”

“Ah, forget it. It’s not about you.” He made his way to the stall which held his own horse, a copper-brown mare. “Trudi’s getting restless. Why don’t we run about?”

Siegfried rubbed his hands together and gathered the tack. They each prepared the horses, mounted, and led them out, one after the other. Gripping the reins, Siegfried looked keenly at him. “I’ll race you!”

Kurt smirked. “Let’s see how well your colt can keep up—in my dust!”

With a shout from Kurt, both took off at a gallop. The mare quickly took the lead. With the wooded path flying by him, Siegfried focused on his rival.

_Come on! Once he reaches the bend, we can overtake him!_

Kurt’s horse was following the curve of the road, but she suddenly reared. Once they caught up, Siegfried heard snarling. A stout, black dog lunged before Sturm and snapped at his legs. Sturm reared and whinnied. Siegfried held the reins with all his strength as Sturm turned and bolted into the forest. He thought he heard Kurt shouting for him, but in his struggle to control the horse, he had lost sight of him.

Sturm ran as far as he could on the uneven forest floor. While pulling back to dodge branches, Siegfried felt a scratch across his cheek for a moment, but he didn’t care. Sturm turned around in a circle.

“Whoa,” Siegfried commanded as he regained his balance. “Sturm, whoa!”

The horse steadily halted. Slackening the reins in one hand, Siegfried patted Sturm’s head. He then touched his stinging cheek and felt blood ooze from it. He suddenly heard his name being called in the distance. Sturm lifted his head and perked his ears. Siegfried clucked his tongue and nudged the horse’s sides with his heels, but Sturm didn’t move. In a huff, he dismounted and led him toward the voice.

“Kurt! This way!”

Kurt soon found his way to him on horseback. “I’d call that one a draw,” he said.

“Was the dog mad?” Siegfried asked as he inspected Sturm’s forelegs, which had been scratched up by the brush.

“Hope not. I didn’t get much of a look at it.” He took out a rag and poured a bit from his waterskin onto it. “Here,” he said as he handed the wet rag to Siegfried. “You’re bleeding like a stuck pig.”

Siegfried took it and dabbed his cheek. “Let’s get back to the road.”

“The dog might still be there. I think we can avoid it if we follow the sun for a while. But we should be able to see where these woods end first.”

They led their horses back to the edge of the forest. Seeing that the path was clear, they mounted and walked onto the road and followed it westward. 

“Well, would you look at that.” Kurt had stopped and turned toward the crossroads. Across from them went a royal entourage under a gold-trimmed banner of red and black, emblazoned with a howling wolf. Flanked by his guards, the king rode by without noticing them. His daughter, a redhead about eight years old and clad in leather armor, kept pace behind him. She glanced at the boys, past the guard to her left, quite aware that she was a curiosity herself.

“Wolfkrone,” Siegfried breathed in surprise. “Where might they be going?”

“Back to Stolzstadt, I guess,” Kurt answered. The seat of the kingdom stood past this forest, on the other side of the Rhine. The king’s journey had been a diplomatic visit.

“Did you see the princess? The girl in armor?”

“Don’t you know? Wolfkrone ladies train to be soldiers.” In a hushed voice, he added, “Not that _I_ can tell if any of them are there.” He paused until the last of the procession went past. “Anyway, I can’t envy anyone surrounded by guards.”

“Why’s that?”

“If I were a prince, I wouldn’t stand being followed anywhere I went. I mean, if it were just me, Trudi, and miles of wilderness, that would be enough.”

“You’d make a lousy prince,” Siegfried said.

Kurt let out a muted laugh. “Lucky me. Now, stay close this time. I’ve heard there have been robbers around.” He nudged Trudi with his heels and so they rode on in tandem.

When they came back, Manfred was quite perturbed, while Frederick was merely relieved. As he and his father prepared to leave, Kurt shot Siegfried a glance that seemed to reflect a sense of accomplishment. For that evening, they were just boys and Siegfried was thrilled that his cousin had allowed it.

* * *

Frederick came home the next day with word of a campaign in faraway lands and a heavy heart. Margaret felt the full weight of his message, but Siegfried, to their dismay, all but leapt upon hearing the news. The boy stood firmly and earnestly.

“Father, as your page, let me come with you.”

“As my only son,” Frederick solemnly said, “I’d rather you stay here and help your mother.”

Siegfried’s heart sank. “But Father, do you doubt me?”

“No. But you still have much to learn.”

“ _That’s_ why I want to go.”

Margaret placed her hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You’re needed here,” she said.

“And it’ll be far too dangerous for you,” Frederick added. “Your uncle Wilfried will teach you while I’m gone.”

Siegfried took some relief from that. Perhaps Wilfried’s lack of sons gave him cause to overlook the circumstances of his nephew’s birth. Perhaps, in the end, it was out of pity.

“Now, my son, can I trust you to mind the house?” Frederick asked.

Reluctantly, Siegfried nodded. A hope sparked within him that his father would someday see him earn his spurs. “Then by the time you come back, I’ll be someone you’ll be proud of.”

“That’s my boy.” Frederick couldn’t help but balk. Nonetheless, he was set on fulfilling his duty to the Emperor—and in so doing, setting an example for Siegfried. He took Margaret’s hand, cool to the touch. “My lady, I trust you’ll watch over him.”

She duly nodded. He was to depart the next morning. She imagined that in a matter of time, he could return in triumph or be buried in a distant land, and they would only know by a messenger’s word. She whispered to him, “Tonight, do one thing for me.”

He nodded.

Though Siegfried could barely hear that, he knew what was meant. He slinked away to take his mind off it. _Please, God, don’t let it happen!_

* * *

  
  


Margaret and Frederick had known that such a time might come. They lay in each other’s arms as they had done countless times. For so long, she had hoped that someday she would feel quickening once again.

“If this is the night it begins,” she said to him, “it’s a shame you won’t be here when I’m carrying.”

“Yes. But you’ll have your hands full one way or another.”

“If it won’t trouble Siegfried…” She turned over, and her gaze drifted toward the moonlight from the window.

“Are you having second thoughts, Margaret?”

“It seems so late to have another one, but if this was our last chance…” Tears welled up. She had cried in bed before, when she had been overwhelmed by involuntary memories of the other knight or some other past customer. At these she would wake up screaming and thrashing in terror. Frederick had learned the hard way not to touch her when that happened.

“Don’t forget what you’ve already given me,” he said as he stroked her cheek. “Not just Siegfried, but the life we made for each other. I’m glad for our time together.”

His battle-worn hand gently clasped hers. She believed he could carry the day as he had done before. Frederick was still in his prime and willing to fight. He drew her back against his chest, and she drifted into an uneasy sleep. As much as she hoped that Wilfried would make good on his promise, she hoped that Frederick would return to complete Siegfried’s training. Come morning, she, too, would see to that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is German for "the heirs". That was the name of the Google Doc I wrote this in, and that might change.
> 
> Here's a comment I left in said Doc; partially edited: [The part about Florian Geyer actually happened.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Florian_Geyer) The German Peasants' War happened about 40 years before the start of this story and since that happened in the southwestern part of the country, I felt I had to work it in. So back when I was researching, I was at first like "Wow, hot damn!" and then I was like "Dammit, what do?" The games' canon doesn't touch on the aftermath of the peasant revolt Frederick was involved in, and that left me taking pains to square the reality of 16th century warfare with a mostly off-screen character dubbed "the gentle knight."
> 
> The demand to end serfdom was one of the [Twelve Articles](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Twelve_Articles).
> 
> The coats of arms were modelled after Siegfried's [2P costume](https://static.wikia.nocookie.net/soulcalibur/images/7/76/Concept40SIEGFRIEDSCIII.jpg/) from SCIII. I also considered the arms on the back of his alternate costume in Soul Blade, but I couldn't find a screenshot where I could make out the charges.
> 
> I'd wanted to write a little scene involving Hilde, inspired by one of Lie's drawings on Pixiv: it's [8 in this collection](https://www.pixiv.net/en/artworks/77848798). The detour in Wolfkrone went nowhere, so I brought them in for a cameo.


	5. In His Absence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had a rough week, and I didn't want to put off posting this chapter any longer. I've had the draft up for nearly a month.

Early that morning, Siegfried uneasily carried out his duties as a page. His father had woken him up even before the maid began her work. The sword and shield felt heavy in his hands, as did each piece of the armor. Frederick, in his solemn demeanor, bore each of them with ease, leaving only the helmet. It ought to have been a time to prove to one’s mettle, but his father seemed to have only acquiesced to it. He wanted to ask, _Shouldn’t you be thrilled, Father?_

Instead, he said, “Aren’t you going to bring the zweihänder?”

“If you can master it, it’s yours,” Frederick answered. He went over to a corner where a long, burlap bundle was propped against the wall. “In the meantime, try and see if this suits you.” He untied the twine around it and took out a simple, wooden replica of Faust itself. “Had this specially made. I’m afraid I’d forgotten about it yesterday.”

Siegfried picked up the waster by the hilt and held it out lengthwise. It was lighter than the sword it was modeled on, but the craftsman had taken care to give it a similar weight distribution. He stepped out of the armory, brandished the waster, and swept it right and left. A one-handed sword would be quicker, and he could see himself knocking one out of a foe’s hand with all the strength he could muster. Once done, Siegfried turned back and said, “It’s perfect.”

“Good, good.” Finally, Frederick donned his helmet.

“I’m still so short,” Siegfried muttered.

Frederick lifted his visor. “When I was your age, your uncles used to tower over me.” With a slight laugh, he then said, “But that changed in a few years.” Neither he nor either of his brothers were particularly tall men.

They met Margaret at the doorway. All around, the air was cool and still. She stood calmly and resolutely as she carefully studied them both. In the soft light of the morning, her husband looked as stalwart as ever. She extended her hand, and he kissed the back of it. “My dear, I promise I shall return to you.”

Silence fell as they gazed at each other. Margaret’s eyes cast down toward her belly. Frederick felt a twinge of guilt. Certainly, he would be leaving her in a better condition than she had ever lived in. If there was to be another child, he hoped Siegfried would be a dutiful brother.

All three entered the stable and brought out the gray, sturdy stallion. This horse was called Donner for his tendency to stamp his thundering hooves at whatever annoyed him, and he was Sturm’s sire. For his quick temper, Siegfried had been taught to be especially cautious around him. Donner calmly accepted the preparations and strode out as if he had waited for this day. 

His brothers rode up to them, along with his past squire Sir Walther in full armor with a laden packhorse in tow. “Sir Frederick,” the young knight said with a slight bow of the head, “since you took it upon yourself to teach me when Sir Wilfried was injured. I’m honored to have served your family, so I shall fight alongside you.”

 _Lucky bastard,_ Siegfried thought.

Words did not come to Siegfried once his father mounted the horse. He felt a welling in his throat as the farewells were given. Frederick spurred his horse and rode down the road, and Walther followed him. Siegfried’s eyes were fixed upon his father until they all were dark, shrinking shapes in the distance. Margaret crossed herself and whispered, “Godspeed.”

Wilfried carefully dismounted from his steed so as not to land on his right leg. He said to Margaret, “Your husband and I had agreed that I shall teach Siegfried for the time being, in return for his training of my old squire.” His speech was strained, as though he expected Manfred to glare at him for just one ill-chosen term.

Margaret thanked him. Siegfried froze, dreading Manfred’s resentment. He turned to his eldest uncle, who was standing with the reins in hand, looking toward the eastern horizon. “It’s all right to be apprehensive, boy,” Manfred said. “Battles change men, and each one is different. He won’t be fighting some feeble baron’s men this time. His foes will know their lands better than any of us, and they won’t be quick to give them up.”

 _He’ll come back,_ Siegfried wanted to say with absolute certainty. But if his father had to lay down his life in battle, that, too, was part of knighthood. As much he wanted to experience a battle, he knew he wasn’t yet ready. Sir Walther had his first true taste of battle in the revolt, though not as a combatant. _Someday, when I’m older,_ Siegfried mused, _I’ll be ready._

* * *

Margaret had hired Irmele, a peasant girl, as a maid earlier that summer. Years before, the idea of it had been quite strange to her. Since the hope of a second child was strong in her mind, she went to the village to ask, as per Frederick’s advice. Despite the persisting memory of her mother telling her how she had toiled even while pregnant, she knew that it wasn’t what ladies needed to do. At the village, it struck her to once again see thatch-roofed hovels and tilled fields, as though at any moment one of her childhood friends could pass by. _If they could see me now,_ she thought, _would they recognize me?_

Irmele’s parents had been the ones to take her up; that she was Frederick’s wife had been reason enough. The father had a long, faded scar across the back of his right hand. Irmele had stood by with her three younger sisters, giving them expressions of reassurance. “Hire our eldest one, Frau Schtauffen,” the gnarled man said. “She’ll need a little something more by the time she’s married.”

Margaret accepted. All the while, she couldn’t suppress the thought that she might have been in the same position years ago. She felt a sort of sisterhood with the shy, gray-eyed, blonde girl, and so she initiated her into the household duties with care. “My lady,” Irmele said, “there must have been someone else before me.”

Margaret shook her head. _Lady,_ she thought. _We aren’t much different, really._

The morning after Frederick went away, Siegfried woke up to the sound of running feet. He soon saw Irmele, wielding a broom, suddenly stop at his parents’ bedroom door. “Didn’t you hear your mother?” she gasped.

“She’s just having a nightmare,” Siegfried said with a yawn.

Irmele lowered the broom; her face flushed. “Shouldn’t we be sure she?”

Siegfried went ahead to open the door and let her investigate. At its creak, Margaret rose from the tangled blanket. She stared frozen and wide-eyed. Her eyes were puffy and her face was white. “Hanne?” she gasped.

Confused, Irmele held the broom at her side and shook her head. “No, Frau.”

“Oh, it’s only you,” Margaret breathed.

“I’m sorry,” Irmele said as she ducked out of the room, leaving it slightly ajar in her haste. Siegfried knew it to have been a recurring dream, one brought about by a deed that none would name. Irmele was embarrassed to have been caught unaware of the problem. She quietly told him: “Come to think of it, my father gets like that some mornings.”

“What do you mean?” he asked curiously.

“He gets such horrible nightmares about a sword nearly cutting off his hand, like he’d actually felt the blade in his sleep. That really did happen to him. One of the mercenary fellows put a red-hot iron to his wound to close it. Like this.” She mimed an iron cauter being removed from an imaginary fire and pressed onto flesh, pointing toward Siegfried’s hand. He drew back as though he could feel it. “His friends weren’t so lucky.”

Once Irmele made her way to the kitchen, Siegfried met his mother in the hall. “Irmele heard you and thought someone broke in,” he said.

“I’m fine, son.”

Siegfried couldn’t understand how she could say that as long she had such dreams. His father had confided to him what had happened, and he regretfully admitted that he had no way of knowing what became of the knight who defiled her. So Siegfried wanted to believe that his father had slain the culprit in the thick of the final battle, or that he had perished at some point in the siege. He seethed at the idea that such a man might still be in the service of Ober-Getzenberg, and he had expressed as much no uncertain, but far less genteel terms. _She had no recourse,_ Frederick said. _At the end of the day, it wouldn’t have mattered how she lost her purity. There aren’t many options for dishonored women, and her procuress exploited that._

Siegfried wouldn’t ask his mother about the dream. He could remember when he was just old enough to figure out what kind of dreams haunted her, and now a part of him wished that they really were of monsters instead.

His uncle Wilfried came later that morning. Siegfried carried his new practice sword across his shoulder. He wasn’t strong enough to carry the actual zweihänder without fear of an accident, so he had been pleased that he could now get a sense of wielding one for himself. Sir Wilfried was amused by the sight. “You look like a little Landsknecht,” he said.

 _“Little?”_ Siegfried said with a start.

“Settle down. I don’t suppose your father brought the zweihänder with him, did he?”

“No. He always says he isn’t very good with it.”

“Oh my. I’ve seen ones that aren’t so broad as that one. Let me see it.”

Siegfried pointed toward the sword. The blade of Faust was almost comical in its broadness, even if one would put it next to another of its type. Wilfried muttered appraisingly as he examined it. “Quite the ambition you have. But I’d rather you stick with the lighter swords for now.”

With a huff, Siegfried tied the zweihänder to his back and strapped the sheathed, one-handed waster to his side. Wilfried shrugged and led him to the stable. In the back of his mind, Siegfried wondered how well his uncle could still fight with his limp. He knew him to be a competent horseman, even if he favored his right side. Siegfried chose the bay mare as she was patient, if not a little wary, but not as quick to startle as Sturm was. The mare Brünhild followed the routine as she did for years. Once he was in the saddle, Siegfried asked, “Where do we start, _Onkel?”_

“That may depend on what Manfred has in mind. Maybe we’ll see how you can handle your new weapon today.”

The hunt had been a bust. Manfred’s dogs cornered a stag in a ravine, and by the time the party caught up to the scene, they were yelping and backing away from the kicking beast’s hooves. As the dark, brindled mastiff stumbled about as though disoriented, the stag leapt over the pack and darted away, with just one foolhardy, white hound in pursuit. Manfred cursed at the sight and ordered Kurt to bring it back. He went down to examine the remaining dogs. The dark male lay on the ground, with one of the fallow mastiffs licking his bleeding face. Manfred’s jaw dropped at the sight of the injured dog, who weakly lifted his head. “His eye’s out!” he shouted. Siegried had never thought he’d hear him sound so close to panic.

Kurt returned with the lost hound, which had gotten a bleeding shoulder for his trouble. “Come on. We’re going home,” Manfred gravely told him. Kurt and Siegfried brought up the rear to keep the pack together. It had not been the first time they had lost their prey, and the prospect of returning empty-handed brought with it a sense of failure. If only they had closed in sooner, or someone had done something differently, or if only they hadn’t been spotted earlier.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Wilfried told them once they reached the manor. “In battle, you might not get a chance to move your wounded comrades out of danger.”

* * *

Manfred had spent the better part of the day tending to the injured dog. The wound had been staunched, and the dog’s right eye stayed shut. Meanwhile, Siegfried watched Kurt tilt at the quintain. This was a post which at one end of its crossbeam had a bag of sand dangling from a rope tied to it. His lance struck the other end of the board and turned it about. Though Trudi startled at the swinging counterweight, she circled back and Kurt managed to strike again. As this went on, Siegfried became impatient to test the quintain, though Kurt had told him the bag would knock his head. Not once had the bag even swung far enough to hit the horse.

Wilfried’s daughter Ottilia had also been observing. Her dark brown hair lay freely over her shoulders. A wry, little grin crossed her face as she noticed Siegfried’s wooden zweihänder at his back. “I thought you’d drag that thing, Siggi,” she said. Only she still called him that.

“He’s going to be at this all day,” Siegfried grumbled. “I wonder if you’d be a better sport.”

“That wouldn’t be fair. You’ve _had_ practice.”

“Well, yes. It’s just not the same without Father.”

After a few more hits, Kurt’s horse began to slow down until she veered away from the quintain and stopped. Finding that she refused to move, Kurt dismounted and led her back to the stable. Once they had gone past their little audience, Siegfried immediately decided to take a liberty. He took up his wooden zweihänder and charged at the quintain. The blade struck and turned the board clockwise, and passed it. “That was underwhelming,” Siegfried said to himself.

“Why didn’t you get your horse?” Ottilia called to him.

He didn’t answer as Kurt ran up to him and pushed him away. “Get out of the way. I don’t have time for your silly chunk of timber.”

Siegfried sneered. _“Leck mich.” 1 _

Kurt glared down at him. “Care to repeat that?”

Ottilia dashed into the house, letting the door slam behind her. Usually, such a confrontation would’ve been alerted to by a drawn-out, piercing cry of _Vati_. Sir Wilfried sternly stepped in before the boys, and they froze. “Cut it out, both of you! Go inside, Siegfried. I’m going to have a word with him.”

Siegfried nodded and complied.

Inside the house, on the wall opposite the hearth, there was a portrait of the late Sir Konrad in his prime. Blond, clean-shaven, with dark brown, hooded eyes seemingly fixed on something in the distance, and an expression as stern as Siegfried had imagined him. Manfred had certainly inherited his stare. “ _Tante_ , can’t you see it?” he asked Adelheid as she happened to pass by.

Adelheid put her slender hand to her chin. “Let me tell you this: hair color alone doesn’t mean much.” She brushed a handful of her golden hair over her shoulder. “Either of your grandparents on your mother’s side could have been blond as well. She could’ve gotten it from one of them.”

“But do you think Kurt—”

“I couldn’t find it in me to object when Manfred insisted on naming him. But Old Konrad was a cold man. Had his sickness not taken him then, he might have pestered Wilfried into siring grandsons even after what happened to his leg.”

Siegfried’s face paled. “ _Tante_ , I just wanted to know if you saw anything of him in me.”

“You might be seeing all that you wish to.”

It was then that Manfred stepped in to make it clear that he had been listening. He gave Adelheid a suspicious glance, but she was not one to be easily cowed. Without wavering, she whispered to him, “Humor the boy, won’t you?”

So Manfred stood by Siegfried and flatly said, “There is one thing you won’t glean from this painting. I don’t suppose your father already told you?”

Siegfried’s brow furrowed. “Was that a trick question?”

“It’s about your sword-arm. Your father is the only man I know to have been proud to have a left-handed child. Your grandfather, however, wouldn’t have waited for anything like that.”

“If he could’ve seen the resemblance in Kurt, wouldn’t he also see it in me?”

His uncle shook his head. “No, boy, no. He wouldn’t have been half as lenient as I was, even if your mother were _just_ a peasant. He would’ve thought your father was addled by the great pox.”2

“What, did you think she ought to have _starved_ instead?”

“It wasn’t about what was deserved, but honor. I was afraid your father picked up some distasteful habits from the Landsknechte. Although, your mother would’ve been rather plain for one of _their_ company. In any case, far be it from me to shut my door to a mother and infant in the cold. But when your father told me he had every intention of making you his _legitimate_ son, how do you think I should’ve taken that?” His hand balled into a tight fist as he sharply drew in a breath. “And he’d already paid some bawd a pretty sum to take her.”

“He freed her.”

“He _bought_ her,” Manfred snarled. “He’s a man of his word, but God almighty! How he became so taken with a…” He stopped short as he noticed his nephew’s glare.

“Good talk, _Onkel_ ,” Siegfried darkly said as he turned away.

“You don’t seem to understand. It was one thing for him to own up to sleeping with her. But what he did since then, such things just aren’t done.” He realized that he may as well have been talking to himself. He went up to Adelheid and said, “I told Frederick, didn’t I? If I had my way, the boy would’ve grown up without such a burden.”

His wife placed her hands on his shoulders. “If anything, he’s as hard-headed as any Schtauffen man.”

“I know, Adelheid. The trouble is that on the one hand, I can hear my father grumbling from his grave. On the other, I could see Frederick resenting me for the rest of his life. It hardly seems like him, but everyone has their limits.”

* * *

Margaret had felt the familiar pains that afternoon, and she knew what they meant well before she saw the blood on her shift. She had hoped to someday feel the first movements, and to carry the new child with the surety that it would grow up with the same comforts that Siegfried had. She had dreamed of the day Frederick would meet the child. He’d lift the toddling, brown-haired girl and embrace her, and life would return to what it was. Still, there was also the fear of the myriad of dangers that he could succumb to. Whether by enemies, brigands, wild beasts, or any sort of mishap, word of his fate would not reach home for a long time.

Siegfried returned home that evening. Margaret scarcely looked up from the lengths of wool in her lap. A set of spools, thimbles, and needles had been neatly arranged on the table before her, and she did not reach for any of them. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

She clasped her fingers and wistfully gazed up. “I remember a time when you were little, when _Tante_ Dorothea was pregnant with Ottilia, and you asked her so many questions. And then you asked me when I would have a baby.”

“Mother, I don’t want a sibling,” he blurted.

She recoiled as if he had tried to hit her, though she quickly regained her composure. “I’m not having a baby. Don’t fret.”

“One that’s not a bastard.”

“Siegfried, you aren’t. Your father and I had hoped for another child for so long. But not all seeds that are planted will grow.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m afraid I can’t bear children anymore. My own mother knew all too well about such things, and she went through worse than that. I was her only child to survive a full year. Even now, I can’t imagine the toll it took on her, and believe you me, my parents tried. We didn’t have rooms, you know.”

Siegfried averted his eyes in embarrassment. “Father said you got me after one night.”

“Yes, that, too, can happen. You were conceived the very night before he returned to his forces, because it could’ve been the last time we’d meet. It wasn’t a wise thing to do, but I wanted to keep something of him, even just a memory. And now, well, if your father and I had one last chance, we didn’t miss it.”

“Mother, you don’t really think…”

“Wait and see. That’s what we have to do.”

* * *

In church, Siegfried’s attention had drifted to his mother. Past the edge of her white linen veil, he could see her lips moving in prayer. He had folded his hands and bowed his head, and that was as far as he followed along. If God had any issue with him not praying, he hadn’t seen any sign of that. But it had seemed only right for him to say one for his father, wherever he now was, if it would somehow help him. As usual, his ears itched for the words _Ite, missa est. 3 _

As they exited, the gaze of an older woman in the crowd caught Margaret’s eye. She was dressed in the simple, drab peasant’s dress, and a girl of about the age of ten followed her. A thin lock of brown hair had escaped her wimpel, and faint creases outlined her light brown eyes and the corners of her mouth. “Gracious lady,” the woman addressed Margaret, “forgive my impertinence, but your face seems familiar to me.”

Margaret cautiously turned to face her. “You do sound a bit familiar.”

“If you are the Margaret I knew, formality hardly becomes us.”

“Hedwig! I never thought I’d see you like this.”

“I could’ve said the same, Frau Schtauffen. And who’s this little fellow with you?”

“I’m Siegfried,” he answered, standing as straight as he could. The girl hid an amused smile with her hand, but he heard her giggle. Her hair was reddish-blonde and loosely tied behind her.

Margaret said, “Siegfried, this is my old friend Hedwig.”

“Oh my,” Hedwig said, “twelve years has it been? This little one is Maria.”

The girl shyly bowed her head. “We lit a candle for Mama,” she quietly said.

Before Margaret could ask what she meant, Maria drew back to Hedwig’s side and grasped her hand. Hedwig put her hand on Margaret’s shoulder and whispered, “For Ursel. And Maria’s little brother.”

“No,” Margaret gasped, her face paled. “How? When?”

“I have time enough to tell you everything, if you’ll indulge us with a seat.”

“You’re more than welcome. My husband’s away, so you can stay as long as you need to.”

On the way home, Siegfried felt perturbed. Recalling less charitable remarks about his mother’s past, he had sometimes pictured her friends as shabby wenches. Rather, there was an air of forlornness about Hedwig. The girl, however, seemed hopeful. Her limbs were spindly and her dress had been mended at the seams many times over. Maria walked up to him, tugged his sleeve, and said, _“Tante_ Hedy never took me this far out of the city before. It’s quiet.”

“Sure is,” Siegfried nonchalantly answered. “Your aunt, huh?”

“I used to have others, but it’s just us now.”

“Oh? What happened?”

Maria clapped her hand to her mouth. “We shouldn’t talk about that. I’ll be called ‘dirty.’”

Siegfried felt something odd in the pit of his stomach. He realized that what was missing from the image that his mother’s words had formed in his mind was the shame that this girl had demonstrated. Through no fault of her own, Maria had been burdened with the sins of the women who raised her, and there were almost certainly more children like her. He was, indeed, a fortunate bastard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. A German equivalent to "kiss my ass". Back  
> 2\. Syphilis. Back  
> 3\. Roughly means "Go, the Mass is ended" in Latin. Back  
> There's a part of me that's really wary of attaching OCs to the canon characters in some manner, and it's given me more trouble than I'd like to think. Anyway, I have an inkling that the name Schtauffen might have been derived from Staufen im Breisgau, a town right at the foot of the Black Forest. Legend has it that Dr. Faust died there in 1540. At least according to the [_Zimmern Chronicle,_](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Faust#Locations_linked_to_the_story) which was written 25 years later. Again, considering the time this is set, I was at a loss to justify the sword's name.
> 
> I've kept Frederick's "foreign crusade" vague since I couldn't line up any actual events with the the timing of this story. The games consistently call it a crusade (small caps theirs), and the term seems to have caused some [confusion.](https://youtu.be/AysiEDPQzlQ?t=1217) The closest thing I could find was the Long Turkish War, [which didn't start until 1591.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rudolf_II,_Holy_Roman_Emperor#Reign) To be doubly sure, I went through the Japanese text ~~because I wasn't waiting for Legends of Localization to confirm my headcanons~~. The operative word there is "遠征" _(ensei)_ which means "expedition" or "military campaign". [Let this GIF be an illustration of my attempts to connect things as I scoured Wikipedia.](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/66/77/88/667788e0b1f08ff1e1cfce11d303b203.gif)


	6. Reminders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little confession. I recently saw [this drawing](https://twitter.com/MyOssanSoul/status/1356826553267589125) and now I'm like: "must... not... rewrite". I'll try to contain myself, I swear. (I don't have a Twitter, by the way.)

On any other day, Siegfried would have been plotting some sort of excuse to meet his uncle outside, lest he ask about the guests. As decent as Sir Wilfried was, he hoped that if the need came, he could get away with a lie that Hedwig was merely a childhood friend of his mother. But what she would say would make that difficult. “I haven’t seen you since you were new to the world,” Hedwig told him. “You have your mother’s eyes.”

Siegfried stopped fiddling with his unruly forelock and stared for a moment. He thought, _Try saying that around my uncles._

Hedwig furtively glanced about, and then said to Margaret, “Now, what I’d like to say isn’t fit for the children’s ears.”

Margaret gestured to them. “Siegfried, why don’t you show Maria around for a while?”

Maria curiously followed him out, her hazel eyes wide. “Your papa’s a knight,” she said in awe.

Margaret rested her chin on her hands. She wondered for a moment how long ago Hedwig’s hands started to appear worn from age. “Go on, Hedwig.”

“It’s a long story, but it is an overdue one.” Hedwig sipped from her tankard and carefully set it down. “Lisbeth nearly talked me into succeeding her. About six years ago, I believe it was. I was willing to do that. I would’ve taken the oath if the time came. Then, around Lammas, we lost Ursel. And her baby son. He was born far too early; he had no chance. She died from childbed fever after that.”

Margaret felt a sting of guilt. _How was it that I survived? No, I could have been there to help her._

“We were up the whole night with the midwife,” Hedwig continued. “There was little she could do. The baby was so small and he didn’t even make a sound. Ursel was barely lucid near the end. She even asked for you a few times. I held her hand and promised that I would care for her daughter. We buried her and the baby together—not in the churchyard, but it was all the same to us. All Lisbeth had to say about her was that she was a good earner. That’s all she’ll remember her for. Ursel simply wanted to be a mother, while I’ll never have to fear the childbed fever for myself.”

“Was that when you left the brothel?”

Hedwig gave a mirthless smile. “We all did. One of the new girls broke out in a strange rash on her hands. Lisbeth tried to send her away, but we all knew what it meant. The great pox was here. I’d heard that the city councilmen already had a mind to close the place, on the insistence of some clergymen, no doubt. We were all given a day to pack up and leave the place. Lisbeth doled out our last wages and left us to drift apart.” She heaved a disgusted sigh. “She wasn’t banished for anything she did to us. Not for the times she denied us food or pay. Not for the ones she forced to work. Or when she told us to turn a deaf ear to the screaming. All that we endured for a roof and food. I ask you, _how_ can anyone forgive someone like that?”

Margaret looked straight at her. “I can’t.”

“What?”

“She didn’t do any of it to keep us from sleeping in the streets, she kept us alive to bring in customers. And surely you knew it could only last so long. Suppose she meant to throw you out by the time your wrinkles were showing.”

Hedwig rested her chin in her hand. “You could say I’d lived there too long. My oldest friends are gone, as are the ones I taught. There are some old clients that I miss, but those days are over. I’ve been getting by as a seamstress since then.”

“Hedwig, I don’t quite understand. Why did you want to take Lisbeth’s place?”

“I’m sure you’d agree that it was well past the time for a gentler hand. But after what happened to Ursel, Lisbeth started to pay attention to Maria. She once put her on her lap and said _‘Tante_ Lili’s here.’ That’s when I made up my mind. She wouldn’t even look her way before then, but I’m afraid… I’m afraid she saw another Ursel in her. I couldn’t bear to let Maria be taken advantage of. It was difficult enough to keep her away from all that as it is.”

“Is _that_ why she let Ursel keep her?”

“If anything, she allowed that so she could keep her in her grip. I don’t know about the second one. Why she didn’t take the herbs, I don’t know. It wasn’t up to me or the rest of us. Even Lisbeth wouldn’t go so far as to force her. Anyway, we didn’t let Maria out of our sight. You never know with Lisbeth. Hanne always tried to appease her, Agnes wouldn’t even speak to her… I miss her candor. God, I miss them all.”

“Truth be told, it does get lonely here, too.”

“I can understand that.”

Meanwhile, just out of sight, Irmele had been silently listening to their conversation. She knew the rumors about her lady, and never did she bring up any of them herself. _Your secret is safe with me, Frau._

The horses were curious things to Maria. Though intimidated by their tallness, Siegfried showed her how to greet them. The mare Brünnhild, the one that always took the lead when the horses were let out to pasture, was gracious enough to allow herself to be patted by this curious visitor. “Our stallion Donner would’ve bitten your hand for that,” Siegfried said. “He’s a bully even in his best moods. Brünnhild seems to like you already.”

Maria pointed to the opposite stall. “What about that whitish one?”

Sturm whickered as he poked his head out of his stall, letting Siegfried stroke his muzzle. “This is Sturm. He’ll be a warhorse someday.”

“He’s pretty.”

“You wouldn’t have thought he was the same horse if you’d seen him when he was a foal. He used to be all dark like Brünnhild, until his coat faded to what it is now. Father said the stallion was like that, too. Of course, he took him with him.”

“You must miss him. Your father, I mean.”

“Yes. I almost wish he hadn’t gone. What about yours?”

“I don’t really have a father. I mean, Mama said he didn’t believe her when she told him. Because she was _dirty_.”

The last word struck him. His own mother wouldn’t let him forget how accepting his father had been. It was clear to him how exceptional that was. “My father took us in after I was born, but my uncle wanted to get rid of me. I can’t help that I _was_ a bastard. Whether he likes it or not, I’m a Schtauffen now. I have the name anyway.”

“What Mama used to do was bad and filthy, so we pray for her to be let out of Purgatory soon.” Maria trembled. “I hope I won’t have to wait long for Hedy, either.”

“Good God,” Siegfried said under his breath. The girl stood in shocked silence at this mild outburst of blasphemy, puzzling him in turn. Even Ottilia wasn’t fazed by that one. “What was it like when your mother was alive?”

“Well, I had a few other aunts then. We weren’t related by blood, but that’s what they were to me. Hedy, Hanne, Agnes… And there was _Tante_ Lili; Hedy says she made them do sinful things with strange men. It was all so terrible that some of them ran away, never to be seen again because no one would want them.”

“Because your _Tante_ Lili trapped them.”

Maria hid her teary eyes in her hands. “It’s true! She’d take innocent girls to Hell with her!”

Siegfried was taken aback. With some trepidation, he gently took her hand. “Let’s you and I go back into the house. It might be fine by now. How does that sound?”

Maria nodded and wiped her nose. As he led her, he thought, _What a thing to tell a child like her!_ He remembered one of Kurt’s favorite taunts from long ago, or so he believed it was for the effect it had on him. Early in his pagehood, they had happened to spot an eagle circling in the sky, and Kurt told him that if he strayed, it might swoop down and carry him away in its sharp talons. Then, with his hands held in a stiff, clawlike gesture, his cousin’s nails dug into his scalp and Siegfried ran to his father’s side. Now he would scoff at the idea of giving him that satisfaction. But Kurt’s teasing never went further than that.

Irmele greeted them, not without concern. “Oh, little one, are you hurt?”

Maria shook her head. As they made their way in, and Irmele disappeared into the kitchen, the girl leaned toward Siegfried and asked in a hushed voice, “Your sister?”

He stopped for a moment, embarrassed and uncertain as to why. “No,” he hastily answered. “She’s our maid.” Maria seemed to study his expression for a moment. At the sound of Hedwig’s voice, she rushed to the hearth.

Hedwig turned to her. “There you are, Marlein _._ You haven’t gotten into any trouble, have you?”

“I got to see the horses,” she beamed. Siegfried wondered if Hedwig really had been the one to instill the fear of Hell in Maria. He knew that a knight was supposed to fear God, as one fears his earthly lords, if not more so. Hell, he believed, was for the craven, the cruel; certainly not for mere children.

“You two are welcome to stay,” Margaret said.

Hedwig abruptly stood up, seemingly seized by a sudden anxiety. “You’re too kind, my lady,” she said with a quick curtsy. “But we were supposed to be on our way.”

“To where?”

“That’s between us,” Hedwig said, drawing Maria to her side. “I can’t deny what I was. So long as she can grow up as a child should, I’ll be content.”

Margaret gave a resigned, but accepting smile. She held out her hand and Hedwig tentatively accepted it, and suddenly and briefly embraced her. “Be well, wherever you go,” Margaret said. As Hedwig left holding the girl’s hand, Maria looked back over her shoulder, perhaps to take in one last look.

By the time the two were out of sight, Siegfried walked hurriedly back toward the stables. Margaret tentatively followed him at a distance and found him sitting against the trunk of a lone linden tree, his arms crossed and his head down. “What’s troubling you, son?”

Siegfried huffed. “I know why you sent us out. What was your life _really_ like before you met Father?”

She was taken aback, but she knew that he had asked in earnest. She knelt down beside him and paused. “What you must understand is that when I started, I knew almost nothing of city life. So, when an older woman told me that she’d hire me, I took it to mean I’d be a maid. When she brought me there, I wondered how many she could need. My mistress gave me a meal and I hung onto her every word. When a knight happened to come in, she wasted no time in setting me up with him. I was afraid but he… He didn’t care. I’d call him a beast, but even animals must have gentler trysts.”

“And she did nothing,” Siegfried quietly said.

“She didn’t care if our customers hurt us, so long as they paid. The money went straight to her. It didn’t matter if any of those men liked me enough to leave an extra pfennig. There was no more love in the act than in that of a pair of stray dogs. Of course, there was the fear of becoming pregnant, since each of us could hardly afford to feed ourselves. If we went too long without the monthly bleeding, our mistress would prepare a mixture of herbs to start it. If we were quick enough, that is.”

“Quick enough for what?”

“Enough for there to be only blood. We weren’t supposed to work if we were pregnant, for that matter. As much as I desired to escape, I feared that there was only one way out.”

“You never…”

“I used to dream of letting the river sweep me away. Sometimes, the idea of it was less terrifying than one more night there. And I _know_ I wasn’t the only one who thought so.”

At once dumbfounded and hurt, Siegfried could scarcely grasp how she could say that, living as she now did. His lip quivered as he tried to collect his thoughts. “Mother… Were you ever afraid that Father wouldn’t believe you?”

She laid her hand on his drooping shoulder. “I was, but your father was a different man altogether. No other that I knew would have gone so far as he did.”

“You always say that,” Siegfried bitterly said. “You think Uncle Manfred will keep acting nice to you now that he’s not here? He doesn’t care about us.”

“Siegfried, he’s not the one training you.”

“Who’s to say Uncle Wilfried won’t stop? It’s only because Father asked him to, I know it. I could be out there with him and—”

“ _No._ You’re much too young. You wouldn’t stand a chance.”

She caught him as he carelessly slumped to the side. “I hate it when you’re right,” he muttered. Siegfried rose to his feet and looked back as she followed him. “I don’t know,” he said wistfully. “Maybe if I were as big as Kurt, I could be doing a lot more.”

With a soft smile, Margaret shook her head. “He’s got three years ahead of you. Give it time. Your grandparents wouldn’t have dreamed of you being here. I’m sure they would’ve been proud of you.”

Without looking at her, he said, “Do you really believe that?”

Once they were back inside, Margaret recalled a dream she had when Siegfried was still an infant. In it, she had been carrying him in her arms, and she walked into her parents’ little, weather-beaten house. Her mother had just placed a loaf of dark bread on the table, and her father shambled to his seat as though exhausted from working. She called to them, “Mother, Father, look! Your grandson.”

In silence, they turned their heads. Her mother’s face went pale. She crossed herself, sat down, and shrank, hiding her face in her arms and sobbing. Her father rigidly stood up. His gray-green eyes brimmed with fury, and worn hands planted on the table. “How could you?” His voice cracked as he went on. “No daughter of mine is a whore. Out! _Out!_ ”

After she awoke and calmed her crying son, she remembered her mother’s warmth. _We named you for one of the Holy Helpers,_ her mother had told her, _the virgin martyr who burst from the belly of a dragon. You were born on her day._ She wanted to believe that her namesake had prayed for Siegfried’s safe delivery. The patron saint of childbirth must have prayed even with sinful women. Now she wondered if it was only a matter of luck. Had she been completely broken, she wouldn’t have dared to escape. Frederick still might have triumphed without another blemish to his name. Was it all fated? That Frederick named the boy for the dragon slayer couldn’t have been only a mere impulse. Siegfried was _theirs_ , he had to be. As far she could remember, none of her customers were left-handed.

* * *

Several days passed with the rest of the family being none the wiser. While he was alone in the armory, Siegfried decided to try on chain mail. The smallest of the hauberks was heavy and somewhat loose on him, hanging past his waist. Even so, he went out with his wooden zweihänder and practiced his strikes. He could feel the rings against him with each movement. _So, I’m not built for it. One of these days…_

“Hey, you!” Kurt’s shout threw him off-balance. “Get your own damn armor.”

Siegfried hesitantly began to remove the hauberk, and Kurt pulled it from him before it was halfway off. Then Kurt stormed off to put the pilfered armor back where it had been. He stopped in the doorway and glared. His blue eyes were narrowed and icy, and his expression cold. “So help me, try anything like that again and I’ll throw you to the wolves.”

Siegfried cocked his head. “I bet you will.”

Kurt bore down on him. “Is that a challenge, parasite?”

Anger began to well up within Siegfried. “You know better! If Father were here—”

“If anyone should’ve known better, it was him. If he didn’t teach you to keep away from what’s not yours, then _I_ will. You’re just a brat who got lucky, so don’t push me, _whoreson_.”

Siegfried lost himself. His fist shot out before him. He felt something crack and heard a sharp, pained cry from Kurt. Then they stood apart from each other. Kurt bent his neck downward and covered his nose with his hand. A crimson rivulet ran down his lips. Siegfried saw fresh spots of blood on the fingers of his gauntlet. Kurt staggered away, groaning and cursing under his breath. The both of them had gotten nosebleeds from training accidents before, but there was no reason Kurt would tell anyone his had been the result of a fall. Siegfried’s limbs felt as heavy as stone.

_That’s it! They’ll kick me out!_

“Siegfried!” Sir Wilfried, in spite of his limp, seemed to find him in an instant. “Care to explain what you did?”

Siegfried removed his bloodied gauntlet and presented it to him. “Uncle,” he said, feeling a catch in his own throat, “Kurt insulted me… He called me—”

“Kurt said you two were arguing because you were wearing his mail. Was that how it started?”

“I was. I didn’t think he’d get so mad about that. And he just had to call me ‘whoreson!’”

“You broke his nose. What he said was one thing, but what you _did_ was quite another. I expected better from the both of you. Go and wash your gauntlet. And when you’re ready, apologize to your cousin. That is all I ask of you.”

Siegfried nodded and followed him to the well. His uncle drew up the bucket and Siegfried wasted no time in scrubbing out the little bloodstains with a rag. By the time he finished, Siegfried had calmed down enough to let it all sink in. He and Kurt had never been above taunting each other, however much his own father would rein him in. But Kurt was the first son of a first son, the one named for Opa; a legitimate child from birth. He certainly wouldn’t be one to forget the injury.

“I’m ready.” Siegfried showed the partly-soaked gauntlet to his uncle. Wilfried called out for Kurt, who silently emerged from the house. His face was now clean and his nose was bruised and slightly bent. Siegfried met his eyes and held out his hand. “Kurt, I’m sorry I lost my temper. And broke your nose.”

“That much I can forgive,” Kurt answered, sounding as though he suffered a head cold. He took his hand and lightly shook it.

It was as high a praise as Siegfried expected from him, but it was a small relief to him. Kurt suddenly turned around at the sound of his mother’s voice and went back inside, calling after her. Siegfried then heard his uncle say, “In a matter of time, you and Kurt will be men, and you two must learn to settle your disputes accordingly.”

“His ‘dispute’ is that I’m a parasite. He never talked like that when Father was here.”

“He’s old enough to understand how you ended up here. And what was said since then.”

“I’m not ashamed of that. I just want him to leave Mother out of it.”

“Your mother was as much a part of it as you were. You were brought in under her cloak, as the saying goes.”1

“But you don’t think she’d get that far if I wasn’t really…”

“All she could give us was her word, but whether we could trust it was another matter. If I’m honest, I don’t believe she had any malicious intent, just naïveté. It’s all very well that she repented, but your father took quite a gamble in the whole thing, you know.”

“Do you really think it would’ve been any better if he had abandoned us?”

“I assure you, that would not have happened. But he did promise her and she wouldn’t have settled for holy seclusion, if you like. She gave us reason enough as to why she left her old life, of course. We were willing to grant her that much.”

Siegfried knew he wasn’t going to hear much more on that. It was cold comfort, and it seemed to be the best that his uncles could give. He knew that a full year could pass before his father’s return, and already the days ahead felt longer. He went through the rest of the afternoon without complaint.

* * *

That night, Siegfried awoke to a cry from his mother. He heard it over the sounds of the wind and the chirping of crickets outside, and the rest of the house was quiet. As he fumbled out of bed in the dim moonlight, he remembered what his father had told him: _Don’t frighten her. They pass like any other dream._

Her crying sent a chill through his blood. How could it be that after so many years in safety, she remained haunted by those men? There seemed to be no remedy for such horrid dreams. At the sound of footsteps, he slowly opened his door. Irmele crept cautiously to his side.

“Your poor mother,” she whispered. “My young lord, are you upset?”

“What do you _think?_ ” Siegfried answered.

“I’m afraid I have heard what was said about her. I didn’t want to believe it, but I never thought it would mean anything like… Like _that._ ”

“Damn those brutes,” he hissed. “Damn every last one of them.”

Irmele placed her hands on his shoulders, and he lurched away. Then he realized that she probably meant to soothe him as she would her sisters, as though she forgot for a moment what she was. He almost willed her to try it again. She was blossoming into womanhood, and this realization had kindled a new curiosity in him. But tonight was not the time for that.

Both remained silent. They heard Margaret’s sobs fade until the house was quiet again. “Irmele, what did you get up for?” he asked.

“I thought you would’ve heard her, too. My young lord, I’m sorry for—”

“No, don’t be. Even my father couldn’t wake her from those. Actually, he tried once. She slapped him.”

“Then, perhaps we should leave her be. I’m going back to sleep. You should, too.” With a yawn, she left him.

Once the hall was quiet again, Siegfried tip-toed close to his parents’ door. He could hear his mother whimpering in her sleep. “I beg of you, let me rest tonight. I still hurt… I still hurt…”

_Like any other dream. If only they were._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. _Mantelkind_ is a term that I somehow missed until quite a while ago. It literally means "cloak child" and it refers to a child born out of wedlock who is legitimized by their mother's marriage. Back
> 
> I think my headcanon that Siegfried was raised Catholic has more to do with his later guilt than anything else. Joking aside, I started with the idea that I could at least write what I know, and then I went into the weird, little rabbit hole that is hagiography. [I think this will do for an example.](https://giltpleasures.wordpress.com/2012/09/17/how-to-give-a-dragon-indigestion/) That's as far I'm going with it.
> 
> I probably should have mentioned that most brothels in what is now southern Germany closed around the time of the Reformation (and syphilis was already a thing by then). Margaret's backstory was partly inspired by [a particular case](https://www.historytoday.com/archive/feature/inside-medieval-brothel) in late medieval Nördlingen. Years ago, I stumbled on a German documentary about medieval prostitution (y'know, as you do) focused around that. It's been geo-blocked since then, so my imagination ran with what I remembered. I think that shows. There's also a [podcast episode](https://www.stitcher.com/show/true-crime-medieval/episode/els-von-eystett-nordlingen-1471-66937225) if you're into that sort of thing.
> 
> No one asked, but I'll say this anyway. The Soul Calibur Wiki's page on Margaret mentioned that she "appears to have some sort of connection to Dampierre", so I did some digging since there are no links to elaborate on that (tsk tsk). Somebody on 8wayrun posted Dampierre's journal entries from _Broken Destiny_ in [this thread.](https://8wayrun.com/threads/dampierres-journal.3723/) Though that game's [relationship chart](https://8wayrun.com/threads/broken-destiny-chain-of-souls-translation-official-iii-cas-recipes.21260/) was cheeky enough to point out that Dampierre's off-screen love interest does indeed share a name with Siegfried's mother, I'm convinced that they're two different characters. I thought I wouldn't bother with the spinoff games at all, but _SCVI's_ Hwang DLC just had to go and... Nah, I won't spoil that one.


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